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Angels Sf Ministers 



Angels & Ministers 

Four Plays of Victorian Shade & 
Character by Laurence Housman 




New York 

Harcourt, Brace and Company 

1922 



1**%\S 



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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 



©CI.D 59831] 



PRINTED IN THE U. S A. ^Y 

HE OUINN a BODEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY. N. J. 



FEB -3 1922 



Introduction 

THE Victorian era has ceased to be a thing of 
yesterday; it has become history; and the fixed 
look of age, no longer contemporary in character, 
which now grades the period, grades also the once 
living material which went to its making. 

With this period of history those who were once 
participants in its life can deal more intimately and 
with more verisimilitude than can those whose 
literary outlook comes later. We can write of it as 
no sequent generation will find possible; for we are 
bone of its bone and flesh of its flesh; and when we 
go, something goes with us which will require for its 
reconstruction, not the natural piety of a returned 
native, such as I claim to be, but the cold, calculating 
art of literary excursionists whose domicile is else- 
where. 

Some while ago, before Mr. Strachey had made the 
name of Victoria to resound as triumphantly as it 
does now, a friend asked why I should trouble to 
resuscitate these Victorian remains. My answer is 
because I myself am Victorian, and because the Vic- 
torianism to which I belong is now passing so rapidly 

5 



into history, henceforth to present to the world a 
colder aspect than that which endears it to my own 
mind. 

The bloom upon the grape only fully appears when 
it is ripe for death. Then, at a touch, it passes, 
delicate and evanescent as the frailest blossoms of 
spring. Just at this moment the Victorian age has 
that bloom upon it — autumnal, not spring-like — 
which, in the nature of things, cannot last. That 
bloom I have tried to illumine before time wipes it 
away. 

Under this rose-shaded lamp of history, domesti- 
cally designed, I would have these old characters 
look young again, or not at least as though they 
belonged to another age. This wick which I have 
kindled is short, and will not last; but, so long as it 
does, it throws on them the commentary of a con- 
temporary light. In another generation the bloom 
which it seeks to irradiate will be gone; nor will 
anyone then be able to present them to us as they 
really were. 



Contents 



PAGE 



I. The Queen: God Bless Her! . . .11 
(A Scene from Home-Life in the Highlands) 

II. His Favourite Flower . . . -45 
(A Political Myth Explained) 

III. The Comforter . . . . . ,61 

(A Political Finale) 

IV. Possession 9 1 

(A Peep-Show in Paradise) 



The Queen : 
God Bless Her! 



Dramatis Personam 

Queen Victoria Lord Beaconsfield 

Mr. John Brown A Footman 



io 



The Queen: God Bless Her! 

A Scene from Home-Life in the 
Highlands 

The august Lady is sitting in a garden-tent on the 
lawn of Balmoral Castle. Her parasol leans be- 
side her. Writing-materials are on the table before 
her, and a small fan, for it is hot weather; also a 
dish of peaches. Sunlight suffuses the tent inte- 
rior, softening the round contours of the face, and 
caressing pleasantly the small plump hand busy 
at letter -writ big. The even flow of her penmanship 
is suddenly disturbed; picking up her parasol, 
she indulgently beats some unseen object, lying 
concealed against her skirts. 

queen. No: don't scratch! Naughty! Naughty! 
(She then picks up a hand-bell, rings it, and 
continues her writing. Presently a fine 
figure of a man in Highland costume 
appears in the tent-door. He waits 
awhile, then speaks in the strong Doric 
of his native wilds.) 

ii 



mr. j. brown. Was your Majesty wanting any- 
thing, or were you ringing only for the fun? 

(To this brusque delivery her Majesty re- 
sponds with a cosy smile, for the special 
junction of Mr. John Brown is not to be 
a courtier; and, knowing what is ex- 
pected of him, he lives up to it.) 

queen. Bring another chair, Brown. And take 
Mop with you: he wants his walk. 

mr. j. b. What kind of a chair are you wanting, 
Ma'am? Is it to put your feet on? 

queen. No, no. It is to put a visitor on. Choose 
a nice one with a lean-back. 

mr. j. b. With a lean back? Ho! Ye mean 
one that you can lean back in. What talk folk will 
bring with them from up south, to be sure! Yes, 
I'll get it for ye, Ma'am. Come, Mop, be a braw little 
wee mon, and tak' your walk! 

(And while his Royal Mistress resumes her 
writing, taking Mop by his " lead," he 
prepares for departure.) 

Have ye seen the paper this morning yet? Ma'am. 

(The address of respect is thrown in by way 
of afterthought, or, as it were, reluc- 
tantly. Having to be in character, his 
way is to tread heavily on the border-line 
which divides familiarity from respect.) 

12 



queen. Not yet. 

mr. j. b. (departing). I'll bring it for ye, now. 

queen. You had better send it. 

j. b. (turning about). What did ye say? . . . 
Ma'am. 

queen. " Send it," Brown, I said. Mop mustn't 
be hurried. Take him round by the stables. 

(He goes: and the Queen, with a soft, indul- 
gent smile, that slowly flickers out as the 
labour of composition proceeds, resumes 
her writing.) 

(Presently enters a liveried Footman, who 
stands at attention with the paper upon a 
salver. Touching the table at her side as 
an indication, the Queen continues to 
write. With gingerly reverence the man 
lays down the paper and goes. Twice 
she looks at it before taking it up; then 
she unfolds it; then lays it down, and 
takes out her glasses; then begins read- 
ing. Evidently she comes on some- 
thing she does not like; she pats the ta- 
ble impatiently, then exclaims: 

Most extraordinary! 

(A wasp settles on the peaches.) 

13 



And I wish one could kill all wicked pests as easily 
as you. 

(She makes a dab with the paper-knife, the 
wasp escapes.) 

Most extraordinary! 

{Relinquishing the pursuit of wasps, she 
resumes her reading.) 

(In a little while Mr. John Brown returns, 
both hands occupied. The chair he 
deposits by the tent door, and hitches 
Mop's "lead" to the back of that on 
which the Queen is sitting. With the 
small beginnings of a smile she lowers 
the paper, and looks at him and his ac- 
companiments.) 

queen. Well, Brown? Oh, yes; that's quite a 
nice one. ... I'm sure there's a wasps' nest some- 
where; there are so many of them about. 

j. b. Eh, don't fash yourself! Wasps have a 
way of being aboot this time of year. It's the fruit 
they're after. 

queen. Yes: like Adam and Eve. 
j. b. That's just it, Ma'am. 

queen. You'd better take it away, Brown, or 
cover it; it's too tempting. 
14 



j. b. (removing the fruit). Ah! Now if God had 
only done that, maybe we'd still all be running aboot 
naked. 

queen. I'm glad He didn't, then. 

j. b. Ye're right, Ma'am. 

queen. The Fall made the human race decent, 
even if it did no good otherwise. Brown, I've 
dropped my glasses. 

(He picks them up and returns them.) 

queen. Thank you, Brown. 

j. b. So you're expecting a visitor, ye say? 

queen. Yes. You haven't seen Lord Beacons- 
field yet, I suppose? 

j. b. Since he was to arrive off the train, you 
mean, Ma'am? No: he came early. He's in his 
room. 

queen. I hope they have given him a comfortable 
one. 

j. b. It's the one I used to have. There's a good 
spring-bed in it, and a kettle-ring for the whisky. 

queen. Oh, that's all right, then. 

j. b. Will he be staying for long? Ma'am. 

queen. Only for a week, I'm afraid. Why? 

IS 



j. b. It's about the shooting I was thinking: 
whether it was the deer or the grouse he'd want to 
be after. 

queen. I don't think Lord Beaconsfield is a 
sportsman. 

j. b. I know that, Ma'am, well enough. But 
there's many who are not sportsmen that think 
they've got to do it — when they come north of the 
Tweed. 

queen. Lord Beaconsfield will not shoot, I'm 
sure. You remember him, Brown, being here before? 

j. b. Eh! Many years ago, that was; he was no 
but Mr. Disraeli then. But he was the real thing, 
Ma'am: oh, a nice gentleman. 

queen. He is always very nice to me. 

j. b. I remember now, when he first came, he 
put a tip into me hand. And when I let him know 
the liberty he had taken, "Well, Mr. Brown," he 
said, " I've made a mistake, but I don't take it back 



queen. Very nice and sensible. 

j. b. And indeed it was, Ma'am. Many a man 
would never have had the wit to leave well alone by 
just apologising for it. But there was an under- 
standingness about him, that often you don't find. 
16 



After that he always talked to me like an equal — just 
like yourself might do. But Lord, Ma'am, his igno- 
rance, it was surprising! 

queen. Most extraordinary you should think that, 
Brown! 

j. b. Ah! You haven't talked to him as I have, 
Ma'am: only about politics, and poetry, and things 
like that, where, maybe, he knows a bit more than I 
do (though he didn't know his Burns so well as a 
man ought that thinks to make laws for Scotland!). 
But to hear him talking about natural facts, you'd 
think he was just inventing for to amuse himself! 
Do you know, Ma'am, he thought stags had white 
tails like rabbits, and that 'twas only when they 
wagged them so as to show, that you could shoot 
them. And he thought that you pulled a salmon out 
o' the water as soon as you'd hooked him. And he 
thought that a haggis was made of a sheep's head 
boiled in whisky. Oh, he's very innocent, Ma'am, 
if you get him where he's not expecting you. 

queen. Well, Brown, there are some things you 
can teach him, I don't doubt; and there are some 
things he can teach you. I'm sure he has taught 
me a great deal. 

j. b. Ay? It's a credit to ye both, then. 

queen. He lets me think for myself, Brown; and 
that's what so many of my ministers would rather I 

17 



didn't. They want me to be merely the receptacle 
of their own opinions. No, Brown, that's what we 
Stewarts are never going to do! 

j. b. Nor would I, Ma'am, if I were in your 
shoes. But believe me, you can do more, being a 
mere woman, so to speak, than many a king can do. 

queen. Yes ; being a woman has its advantages, I 
know. 

j. b. For you can get round 'em. Ma'am; and 
you can put 'em off; and you can make it very 
awkward for them — very awkward — to have a differ- 
ence of opinion with you. 

queen (good-humour edly) . You and I have had 
differences of opinion sometimes, Brown. 

j. b. True, Ma'am; that has happened; I've 
known it happen. And I've never regretted it, 
never! But the difference there is, Ma'am, that I'm 
not your Prime Minister. Had I been — you'd 'a 
been more stiff about giving in — naturally! Now 
there's Mr. Gladstone, Ma'am; I'm not denying he's 
a great man; but he's got too many ideas for my 
liking, far too many! I'm not against temperance 
any more than he is — put in its right place. But he's 
got that crazy notion of " local option " in his mind; 
he's coming to it, gradually. And he doesn't think 
how giving " local option," to them that don't take 
18 



the wide view of things, may do harm to a locality. 
You must be wide in your views, else you do some- 
body an injustice. 

queen. Yes, Brown; and that is why I like being 
up in the hills, where the views are wide. 

j. b. I put it this way, Ma'am. You come to a 
locality, and you find you can't get served as you are 
accustomed to be served. Well! you don't go there 
again, and you tell others not to go; and so the place 
gets a bad name. I've a brother who keeps an inn 
down at Aberlochy on the coach route, and he tells 
me that more than half his customers come from 
outside the locality. 

queen. Of course; naturally! 

j. b. Well now, Ma'am, it'll be bad for the 
locality to have half the custom that comes to it 
turned away, because of local option! And believe 
me, Ma'am, that's what it will come to. People 
living in it won't see till the shoe pinches them; and 
by that time my brother, and others like him, will 
have been ruined in their business. 

queen. Local option is not going to come yet, 
Brown. 

j. b. {firmly). No, Ma'am, not while I vote con- 
servative, it won't. But I was looking ahead; I 
was talking about Mr. Gladstone. 

i9 



queen. Mr. Gladstone has retired from politics. 
At least he is not going to take office again. 

j. b. Don't you believe him, Ma'am. Mr. Glad- 
stone is not a retiring character. He's in to-day's 
paper again — columns of him; have ye seen? 

queen. Yes; quite as much as I wish to see. 

j. b. And there's something in what he says, I 
don't deny. 

queen. There's a great deal in what he says, I 
don't understand, and that I don't wish to. 

j. b. Now you never said a truer thing than that 
in your life, Ma'am! That's just how I find him. 
Oh, but he's a great man; and it's wonderful how he 
appreciates the Scot, and looks up to his opinion. 

(But this is a line of conversation in which 
his Royal Mistress declines to be inter- 
ested. And she is helped, at that mo- 
ment, by something which really does 
interest her.) 

queen. Brown, how did you come to scratch your 
leg? 

j. b. Twas not me, Ma'am; 'twas the stable cat 
did that — just now while Mop was having his walk. 

queen. Poor dear Brown! Did she fly at you? 
20 



j. B t Well, 'twas like this, Ma'am; first Mop went 
for her, then she went for him. And I tell ye she'd 
have scraped his eyes out if I'd left it to a finish. 

queen. Ferocious creature! She must be mad. 

J. b. Well, Ma'am, I don't know whether a cat- 
and-dog fight is a case of what God hath joined 
together; but it's the hard thing for man to put 
asunder! And that's the scraping I got for it, when 
I tried. 

queen. You must have it cauterised, Brown. I 
won't have you getting hydrophobia. 

J. b. You generally get that from dogs. 

queen. Oh, from cats too; any cat that a mad 
dog has bitten. 

J. b. They do say, Ma'am, that if a mad dog 
bites you— you have to die barking. So if it's a cat-- 
bite I'm going to die of, you'll hear me mewing the 
day, maybe. 

queen. I don't like cats: I never did. Treacher- 
ous, deceitful creatures! Now a dog always looks up 
to you. 

J. b. Yes, Ma'am; they are tasteful, attractive 
animals; and that, maybe, is the reason. They give 
you a good conceit of yourself, dogs do. You never 

21 



have to apologise to a dog. Do him an injury — 
you've only to say you forgive him, and he's friends 
again. 

(Accepting his views with a nodding smile, 
she resumes her pen, and spreads paper.) 

queen. Now, Brown, I must get to work again. 
I have writing to do. See that I'm not disturbed. 

j. b. Then when were you wanting to see your 
visitor, Ma'am? There's his chair waiting. 

queen. Ah, yes, to be sure. But I didn't want 
to worry him too soon. What is the time? 

j. b. Nearly twelve, Ma'am. 

queen. Oh! then I think I may. Will you go 
and tell him: the Queen's compliments, and she would 
like to see him, now? 

j. b. I will go and tell him, Ma'am. 

queen. And then I shan't want you any more — 
till this afternoon. 

j. b. Then I'll just go across and take lunch at 
home, Ma'am. 

queen. Yes, do! That will be nice for you. And, 
Brown, mind you have that leg seen to! 

(Mr. John Brown has started to go, when his 
step is arrested.) 

22 



j. b. His lordship is there in the garden, Ma'am, 
talking to the Princess. 

queen. What, before he has seen me? Go, and 
take him away from the Princess, and tell him to 
come here! 

j. b. I will, Ma'am. 

queen. And you had better take Mop with you. 
Now, dear Brown, do have your poor leg seen to, at 
once! 

j. b. Indeed, and I will, Ma'am. Come, Mop, 
man! Come and tell his lordship he's wanted. 

(Exit Mr. John Brown, nicely accompanied 
by Mop.) 

(Left to herself the Queen administers a 
feminine touch or two to dress and cap 
end hair; then with dignified composure 
she resumes her writing, and continues 
to write even when the shadow of her 
favourite minister crosses the entrance, 
and he stands hat in hand before her, 
flawlessly arrayed in a gay frock suit 
suggestive of the period when male attire 
was still not only a fashion but an art. 

Despite, however, the studied correctness of 
his co-stume, face and deportment give 
signs of haggard fatigue ; and when he 

23 



bows it is the droop of a weary man, 
slow in the recovery. Just at the fitting 
moment for full acceptance of his silent 
salutation, the Royal Lady lays down 
her pen.) 

queen. Oh, how do you do, my dear Lord 
Beaconsfield! Good morning; and welcome to 
Balmoral. 

lord b. (as he kisses the hand extended to him). 
That word from your Majesty brings all its charms 
to life! What a prospect of beauty I see around me! 

queen. You arrived early? I hope you are suffi- 
ciently rested. 

lord b. Refreshed, Madam; rest will come later. 

queen. You have had a long, tiring journey, I 
fear. 

lord b. It was long, Madam. 

queen. I hope that you slept upon the train? 

lord b. I lay upon it, Ma'am. That is all I can 
say truly. 

queen. Oh, I'm sorry! 

lord b. There were compensations, Ma'am. In 
my vigil I was able to look forward — to that which 
24 



is now before me. The morning is beautiful! May 
I be permitted to enquire if your Majesty's health 
has benefited? 

queen. I'm feeling " bonnie," as we say in Scot- 
land. Life out of doors suits me. 

lord b. Ah! This tent light is charming! Then 
my eyes had not deceived me; your Majesty is 
already more than better. The tempered sunlight, 
so tender in its reflections, gives — an interior, one 
may say — of almost floral delicacy; making these 
canvas walls like the white petals of an enfolding 
flower. 

queen. Are you writing another of your novels, 
Lord Beaconsfield? That sounds like composition. 

lord b. Believe me, Madam, only an impromptu. 

queen. Now, my dear Lord, pray sit down! I 
had that chair specially brought for you. Generally 
I sit here quite alone. 

lord b. Such kind forethought, Madam, over- 
whelms me! Words are inadequate. I accept, grate- 
fully, the repose you offer me. 

(He sinks into the chair, and sits motionless 
and mute, in a weariness that is not the 
less genuine because it provides an effect. 
But from one seated in the Royal 

25 



Presence much is expected; and so it is 
in a tone of sprightly expectancy that his 
Royal Mistress now prompts him to his 
task of entertaining her ) 

queen. Well? And how is everything? 

lord b. {rousing himself with an effort). Oh! 
Pardon! Your Majesty would have me speak on 
politics, and affairs of State? I was rapt away for 
the moment. 

queen. Do not be in any hurry, dear Prime 
Minister. 

lord b. Ah! That word from an indulgent 
Mistress spurs me freshly to my task. But, Madam, 
there is almost nothing to tell: politics, like the rest 
of us, have been taking holiday. 

queen. I thought that Mr. Gladstone had been 
speaking. 

lord b. (with an airy flourish of courtly disdain). 
Oh, yes! He has been — speaking. 

queen. In Edinburgh, quite lately. 

lord b. And in more other places than I can 
count. Speaking — speaking — speaking. But I Lave 
to confess, Madam, that I have not read his speeches. 
They are composed for brains which can find more 
leisure than yours, Madam — or mine. 
26 



queen. I have read some of them. 

lord b. Your Majesty does him great honour — 
and yourself some inconvenience, I fear. Those 
speeches, so great a strain to understand, or even to 
listen to — my hard duty for now some forty years — 
are a far greater strain to read. 

queen. They annoy me intensely. I have no pa- 
tience with him! 

lord b. Pardon me, Madam; if you have read 
one of his speeches, your patience has been extraor- 
dinary. 

queen. Can't you stop it? 

lord b. Stop? — stop what, Madam? Niagara, 

the Flood? That which has no beginning, no limit, 

has also no end: till, by the operation of nature, it 
runs dry. 

queen. But, surely, he should be stopped when 
he speaks on matters which may, any day, bring us 
into war! 

lobd b. Then he would be stopped. When the 
British nation goes to war, Madam, it ceases to listen 
to reason. Then it is only the beating of its own 
great heart that it hears: to that goes the marching 
of its armies, with victory as the one goal. Then, 
Madam, above reason rises instinct. Against that he 
will be powerless. 

27 



queen. You think so? 

lord b. I am sure, Madam. If we are drawn 
into war, his opposition becomes futile. If we are 
not: well, if we are not, it will not be his doing that 
we escape that — dire necessity. 

queen. But you do think it necessary, don't you? 

(To the Sovereigns impetuous eagerness, so 
creditable to her heart, he replies with 
the oracular solemnity by which caution 
can be sublimated.) 

lord b. I hope it may not be, Madam. We must 
all say that — up till the last moment. It is the only 
thing we can say, to testify the pacifity of our 
intention when challenged by other Powers. 

queen (touching the newspaper). This morning's 
news isn't good, I'm afraid. The Russians are getting 
nearer to Constantinople. 

lord b. They will never enter it, Madam. 

queen. No, they mustn't! We will not allow it. 

lord b. That, precisely, is the policy of your 
Majesty's Government. Russia knows that we shall 
not allow it; she knows that it will never be. Never- 
theless, we may have to make a demonstration. 

queen. Do you propose to summon Parliament? 
28 



lord b. Not Parliament ; no, Madam. Your Maj- 
esty's Fleet will be sufficient. 

(This lights a spark; and the royal mind 
darts into strategy.) 

queen. If I had my way, Lord Beaconsfield, my 
Fleet would be in the Baltic to-morrow; and before 
another week was over, Petersburg would be under 
bombardment. 

lord b. {considerately providing this castle in the 
air with its necessary foundations). And Cronstadt 
would have fallen. 

queen (puzzled for a moment at this naming of a 
place which had not entered her calculations). Cron- 
stadt? Why Cronstadt? 

lord b. Merely preliminary, Madam. When that 
fortified suburb has crumbled — the rest will be easy. 

queen. Yes! And what a good lesson it will 
teach them! The Crimea wasn't enough for them, 
I suppose. 

lord b. The Crimea! Ah, what memories — of 
heroism — that word evokes! " Magnificent, but not 
war! " 

queen. Oh! There is one thing, Lord Beacons- 
field, on which I want your advice. 

29 



lord b. Always at your Majesty's disposal. 

queen. I wish to confer upon the Sultan of Turkey 
my Order of the Garter. 

lobd b. Ah! how generous, how generous an in- 
stinct! How like you, Madam, to wish it! 

queen. What I want to know is, whether, as 
Prime Minister, you have any objection? 

lord b. " As Prime Minister." How hard that 
makes it for me to answer! How willingly would I 
say "None"! How reluctantly, on the contrary, I 
have to say, " It had better wait." 

queen. Wait? Wait till when? I want to do 
it now. 

lord b. Yes, so do I. But can you risk, Madam, 
conferring that most illustrious symbol of honour, 
and chivalry, and power, on a defeated monarch? 
Your royal prestige, Ma'am, must be considered. 
Great and generous hearts need, more than most, to 
take prudence into their counsels. 

queen. But do you think, Lord Beaconsfield, that 
the Turks are going to be beaten? 

lord b. The Turks are beaten, Madam. . . . But 
England will never be beaten. We shall dictate 
terms — moderating the demands of Russia; and 
30 



under your Majesty's protection the throne of the 
Kaliphat will be safe — once more. That, Madam, is 
the key to our Eastern policy: a grateful Kaliphat, 
claiming allegiance from the whole Mahometan 
world, bound to us by instincts of self-preservation — 
and we hold henceforth the gorgeous East in fee with 
redoubled security. His power may be a declining 
power; but ours remains. Some day, who knows? 
Egypt, possibly even Syria, Arabia, may be our 
destined reward. 

(Like a cat over a bowl of cream, England's 
Majesty sits lapping all this up. But, 
when he has done, her commentary is 
shrewd and to the point.) 

queen. The French won't like that! 

lord b. They won't, Madam, they won't. But 
has it ever been England's policy, Madam, to mind 
what the French don't like? 

queen {with relish). No, it never has been, has 
it? Ah! you are the true statesman, Lord Beacons- 
field. Mr. Gladstone never talked to me like that. 

lord b. (courteously surprised at what does not at 
all surprise him). No? . . . You must have had 
interesting conversations with him, Madam, in the 
past. 

queen (very emphatically) . I have never once had 

3i 



a conversation with Mr. Gladstone, in all my life, 
Lord Beaconsfield. He used to talk to me as if I 
were a public meeting — and one that agreed with 
him, too! 

lord b. Was there, then, any applause, Madam? 

queen. No, indeed! I was too shy to say what 
I thought. I used to cough sometimes. 

lord b. Rather like coughing at a balloon, I 
fear. I have always admired his flights — regarded 
as a mere tour de force — so buoyant, so sustained, so 
incalculable! But, as they never touch earth to any 
serviceable end, that I could diseover — of what use 
are they? Yet if there is one man who has helped 
me in my career — to whom, therefore, I should owe 
gratitude — it is he. 

queen. Indeed? Now that does surprise me! 
Tell me, Lord Beaconsfield, how has he ever helped 
you? 

lord b. In our party system, Madam, we live 
by the mistakes of our opponents. The balance of 
the popular verdict swings ever this way and that, 
relegating us either to victory or defeat, to office or 
to opposition. Many times have I trodden the road 
to power, or passed from it again, over ruins the origin 
of which I could recognise either as my own work or 
that of another; and most of all has it been over 
32 



the disappointments, the disaffections, the disgusts, 
the disillusionments — chiefly among his own party — 
which my great opponent has left me to profit by. 
I have gained experience from what he has been 
morally blind to; what he has lacked in under- 
standing of human nature he has left for me to 
discover. Only to-day I learn that he has been in 
the habit of addressing — as you, Madam, so wittily 
phrased it — of addressing, " as though she were a 
public meeting," that Royal Mistress, whom it has 
ever been my most difficult task not to address 
sometimes as the most charming, the most accom- 
plished, and the most fascinating woman of the epoch 
which bears her name. {He pauses, then resumes.) 
How strange a fatality directs the fate of each one 
of us! How fortunate is he who knows the limits 
that destiny assigns to him: limits beyond which 
no word must be uttered. 

(His oratorical flight, so buoyant and sus- 
tained, having come to its calculated end, 
he drops deftly to earth, encountering 
directly for the first time the flattered 
smile with which the Queen has listened 
to him.) 

Madam, your kind silence reminds me, in the 
gentlest, the most considerate way possible, that I 
am not here to relieve the tedium of a life made 
lonely by a bereavement equal to your own, in con- 

33 



versation however beguiling, or in quest of a sympathy 
of which, I dare to say, I feel assured. For, in a 
sense, it is as to a public assembly, or rather as to a 
great institution, immemorially venerable and august, 
that I have to address myself when, obedient to your 
summons, I come to be consulted as your Majesty's 
First Minister of State. If, therefore, your royal 
mind have any inquiries, any further commands to 
lay upon me, I am here, Madam, to give effect to 
them in so far as I can. 

(This time he has really finished, but with so 
artful an abbreviation at the point where 
her interest has been most roused that 
the Queen would fain have him go on. 
And so the conversation continues to 
flow along intimate channels.) 

queen. No, dear Lord Beaconsfield, not to-day! 
Those official matters can wait. After you have said 
so much, and said it so beautifully, I would rather 
still talk with you as a friend. Of friends you and I 
have not many; those who make up our world, for 
the most part, we have to keep at a distance. But 
while I have many near relatives, children and 
descendants, I remember that you have none. So 
your case is the harder. 

lord b. Ah, no, Madam, indeed! I have my 
children — descendants who will live after me, I 
34 



trust — in those policies which, for the welfare of my 
beloved country, I confide to the care of a Sovereign 
whom I revere and love. ... I am not unhappy in my 
life, Madam; far less in my fortune; only, as age 
creeps on, I find myself so lonely, so solitary, that 
sometimes I have doubt whether I am really alive, 
or whether the voice, with which now and then I 
seek to reassure myself, be not the voice of a dead 
man. 

queen {almost tearfully). No, no, my dear Lord 
Beaconsfield, you mustn't say that! 

lord b. (gallantly). I won't say anything, Madam, 
that you forbid, or that you dislike. You invited 
me to speak to you as a friend; so I have done, 
so I do. I apologise that I have allowed sadness, 
even for a moment, to trouble the harmony — the 
sweetness — of our conversation. 

queen. Pray, do not apologise! It has been a 
very great privilege; I beg that you will go on! 
Tell me — you spoke of bereavement — I wish you 
would tell me more — about your wife. 

(The sudden request touches some latent 
chord; and it is with genuine emotion 
that he a?iswers.) 

lord b. Ah! My wife! To her I owed every- 
thing. 

35 



queen. She was devoted to you, wasn't she? 

lord b. I never read the depth of her devotion — 
till after her death. Then, Madam — this I have 
told to nobody but yourself — then I found among 
her papers — addressed " to my dear husband " — a 
message, written only a few days before her death, 
with a hand shaken by that nerve-racking and fatal 
malady which she endured so patiently — begging me 
to marry again. 

{The Queen is now really crying, and finds 
speech difficult.) 

queen. And you, you — ? Dear Lord Beacons- 
field; did you mean — had you ever meant ? 

lord b. I did not then, Madam; nor have I ever 
done so since. It is enough if I allow myself — to love. 

queen. Oh, yes, yes; I understand — better than 
others would. For that has always been my own 
feeling. 

lord b. In the history of my race, Madam, 
there has been a great tradition of faithfulness between 
husbands and wives. For the hardness of our hearts, 
we are told, Moses permitted us to give a writing of 
divorcement. But we have seldom acted on it. In 
my youth I became a Christian; I married a Chris- 
tian. But that was no reason for me to desert the 
36 



nobler traditions of my race — for they are in the 
blood and in the heart. When my wife died I had 
no thought to marry again; and when I came upon 
that tender wish, still I had no thought for it; my 
mind would not change. Circumstances that have 
happened since have sealed irrevocably my resolu- 
tion — never to marry again. 

queen. Oh, I think that is so wise, so right, so 
noble of you! 

(The old Statesman rises, pauses, appears to 
hesitate, then in a voice charged with 
emotion says) 

lord b. Madam, will you permit me to kiss your 
hand? 

(The hand graciously given, and the kiss 
jervently implanted, he falls back once 
more to a respectful distance. But the 
ei.iotional excitement of the interview 
has told upon him, and it is in a wav- 
ering voice of weariness that he now 
speaks.) 

lord b. You have been very forbearing with me, 
Madam, not to indicate that I have outstayed either 
my welcome or your powers of endurance. Yet so 
much conversation must necessarily have tired you. 
May I then crave permission, Madam, to withdraw? 
For, to speak truly, I do need some rest. 

37 



queen. Yes, my dear friend, go and rest yourself! 
But before you go, will you not wait, and take a 
glass of wine with me? 

(He bows, and she rings.) 

And there is just one other thing I wish to say before 
we part. 

lord b. Speak, Madam, for thy servant heareth. 

(The other servant is now also standing to 
attention, awaiting orders.) 

queen. Bring some wine. 

(The Attendant goes.) 

That Order of the Garter which I had intended to 
confer upon the Sultan — have you, as Prime Minister, 
any objection if I bestow it nearer home, on one to 
whom personally — I cannot say more — on yourself, 
I mean? 

(At that pronouncement of the royal favour, 
the Minister stands, exhausted of en- 
ergy, in an attitude of drooping humil- 
ity. The eloquent silence is broken 
presently by the Queen.) 

queen. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, I want your 
answer. 

lord b. Oh, Madam! What adequate answer 
can these poor lips make to so magnificent an offer? 
38 



Vet answer I must. We have spoken together 
briefly to-day of our policies in the Near East. 
Madam, let me come to you again when I have 
saved Constantinople, and secured once more upon a 
firm basis the peace of Europe. Then ask me again 
whether I have any objection, and I will own — " I 
have none! " 

(Re-enters Attendant. He deposits a tray 
with decanter and glasses, and retires 
again.) 

queen. Very well, Lord Beaconsfield. And if you 
do not remind me, I shall remind you. {She points 
to the tray.) Pray, help yourself! 

{He takes up the decanter.) 
lord b. I serve you, Madam? 
queen. Thank you. 

{He fills the two glasses; presents hers to the 
Queen, and takes up his own.) 

lord b. May I propose for myself — a toast, 
Madam? 

{The Queen sees wlmt is coming, and bows 
graciously.) 

lord b. The Queen! God bless her! 

{He drains the glass, then breaks it against 

39 



the pole of the tent, and throws away 
the stem.) 

An old custom, Madam, observed by loyal defend- 
ers of the House of Stewart, so that no lesser health 
might ever be drunk from the same glass. To my 
old hand came a sudden access of youthful enthu- 
siasm — an ardour which I could not restrain. Your 
pardon, Madam! 

queen (very gently). Go and lie down, Lord 
Beaconsfield; you need rest. 

lord b. Adieu, Madam. 

queen. Draw your curtains, and sleep well ! 

(For a moment he stands gazing at her with 
a look of deep emotion; he tries to 
speak. Ordinary words seem to fail; 
he falters into poetry.) 

" When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering Angel, thou! " 

(It has been beautifully said, they both feel. 
Silent and slow, with head reverentially 
bowed, he backs from the Presence.) 

(The Queen sits and looks after the retreating 
figure, then at the broken fragments of 
glass. She takes up the hand-bell and 
rings. The Attendant enters.) 
40 



queen. Pick up that broken glass. 

( The Attendant collects it on the hand-tray 
which he carries.) 

Bring it to me! ... Leave it! 

(The Attendant deposits the tray before her, 
and goes. Gently the Queen handles 
the broken pieces. Then in a voice oj 
tear jul emotion she speaks.) 

Such devotion! Most extraordinary! Oh, Albert! 
Albert! 

{And in the sixteenth year of her widowhood 
and the fortieth oj her reign the Royal 
Lady bends her head over the fragments 
of broken glass, and weeps happy tears.) 

CURTAIN 



4i 



His Favourite Flower 



43 



Dramatis Personam 

The Statesman The Doctor 

The Housekeeper The Primroses 



44 



His Favourite Flower 

A Political Myth Explained 

The eminent old Statesman has not been at all well. 
He is sitting up in his room, and his doctor has 
come to see him for the third time in three days. 
Ttes means that the malady is not yet seriously 
regarded: once a day is still sufficient. Never- 
theless, he is a woeful wreck to look at; and the 
doctor looks at him with the greatest respect, and 
listens to his querulous plaint patiently. For that 
great dome of silence, his brain, repository of so 
many state-secrets, is still a redoubtable instru- 
ment : its wit and its magician' s cunning have not 
yet lapsed into the didl inane of senile decay. 
Though fallen from power, after a bad beating at 
the polls, there is no knowing but that he may 
rise again, and hold once more in those tired old 
hands, shiny with rheumatic gout, and now 
twitching feebly under the discomfort of a super- 
imposed malady, the reins of democratic and 
imperial power. The dark, cavernous eyes still 
wear their look of accumulated wisdom, a touch 

45 



also of visionary fire. The sparse locks, dyed to 
a raven black, set off with their uncanny sheen the 
clay-like pallor of the face. He sits in a high- 
backed chair, wrapped in an oriental dressing- 
gown, his muffled feet resting on a large hot-water 
bottle; and the eminent physician, preparatory 
to taking a seat at his side, bends solicitously 
over him-. 

doctor. Well, my dear lord, how are you to-day? 
Better? You look better. 

statesman. Yes, I suppose I am better. But my 
sleep isn't what it ought to be. I have had a dream, 
Doctor; and it has upset me. 

doctor. A dream? 

statesman. You wonder that I should mention 
it? Of course, I — I don't believe in dreams. Yet 
they indicate, sometimes — do they not? — certain dis- 
orders of the mind. 

doctor. Generally of the stomach. 

statesman. Ah! The same thing, Doctor. 
There's no getting away from that in one's old age; 
when one has lived as well as I have. 

doctor. That is why I dieted you. 

statesman. Oh, I have nothing on my conscience 
as to that. My housekeeper is a dragon. Her 
fidelity is of the kind that will even risk dismissal. 
46 



doctor. An invaluable person, under the circum- 
stances. 

statesman. Yes ; a nuisance, but indispensable. 
No, Doctor. This dream didn't come from the 
stomach. It seemed rather to emanate from that 
outer darkness which surrounds man's destiny. So 
real, so horribly real! 

doctor. Better, then, not to brood on it. 

statesman. Ah! Could I explain it, then I 
might get rid of it. In the ancient religion of my 
race dreams found their interpretation. But have 
they any? 

doctor. Medical science is beginning to say 
"Yes"; that in sleep the subconscious mind has its 
reactions. 

statesman. Well, I wonder how my " subcon- 
scious mind " got hold of primroses. 

doctor. Primroses? Did they form a feature in 
your dream? 

statesman. A feature? No. The whole place 
was alive with them! As the victim of inebriety 
sees snakes, I saw primroses. They were every- 
where: they fawned on me in wreaths and festoons; 
swarmed over me like parasites; flew at me like 
flies; till it seemed that the whole world had con- 

47 



spired to suffocate me under a sulphurous canopy of 
those detestable little atoms. Can you imagine the 
horror of it, Doctor, to a sane — a hitherto sane mind 
like mine? 

doctor. Oh! In a dream any figment may excite 
aversion. 

statesman. This wasn't like a dream. It was 
rather the threat of some new disease, some brain 
malady about to descend on me: possibly delirium 
tremens. I have not been of abstemious habits, 
Doctor. Suppose ? 

doctor. Impossible! Dismiss altogether that sup- 
position from your mind! 

statesman. Well, Doctor, I hope — I hope you 
may be right. For I assure you that the horror I 
then conceived for those pale botanical specimens in 
their pestiferous and increscent abundance, exceeded 
what words can describe. I have felt spiritually 
devastated ever since, as though some vast calamity 
were about to fall not only on my own intellect, but 
on that of my country. Well, you shall hear. 

{He draws his trembling hands wearily over 
his face, and sits thinking awhile.) 

With all the harsh abruptness of a soul launched 
into eternity by the jerk of the hangman's rope, so 
I found myself precipitated into the midst of this 
48 



dream. I was standing on a pillory, set up in 
Parliament Square, facing the Abbey. I could see 
the hands of St. Margaret's clock pointing to half- 
past eleven; and away to the left the roof of 
Westminster Hall undergoing restoration. Details, 
Doctor, which gave a curious reality to a scene other- 
wise fantastic, unbelievable. There I stood in a 
pillory, raised up from earth; and a great crowd had 
gathered to look at me. I can only describe it as a 
primrose crowd. The disease infected all, but not 
so badly as it did me. The yellow contagion spread 
everywhere; from all the streets around, the botani- 
cal deluge continued to flow in upon me. I felt a 
pressure at my back; a man had placed a ladder 
against it; he mounted and hung a large wreath 
of primroses about my neck. The sniggering crowd 
applauded the indignity. Having placed a smaller 
wreath upon my head, he descended. ... A mockery 
of a May Queen, there I stood! 

doctor (laying a soothing hand on him). A dream, 
my dear lord, only a dream. 

statesman. Doctor, imagine my feelings! My 
sense of ridicule was keen; but keener my sense of 
the injustice — not to be allowed to know why the 
whole world was thus making mock of me. For this 
was in the nature of a public celebration, its malignity 
was organised and national; a new fifth of November 
had been sprung upon the calendar. Around me I 

49 



saw the emblematic watchwords of the great party 
1 had once led to triumph: " lmperium et Libertas," 
" Peace with Honour," " England shall reign where'er 
the sun," and other mottoes of a like kind; and on 
them also the floral disease had spread itself. The 
air <^rcw thick and heavy with its sick-room odour. 
Doctor, I could have vomited. 

doctor. Yes, yes; a touch of biliousness, I don't 
doubt. 

statesman. With a sudden flash of insight — 
" This," I said to myself, " is my Day of Judgment. 
Here I stand, judged by my fellow-countrymen, for 
the failures and shortcomings of my political career. 
The good intentions with which my path was strewn 
are now turned to my reproach. But why do they 
take this particular form? Why — why primroses? " 

doctor. " The primrose way " possibly? 

statesman. Ah! That occurred to me. But has 
it, indeed, been a primrose way that I have trodden 
so long and so painfully? I think not. I cannot so 
accuse myself. But suppose the Day of Judgment 
which Fate reserves for us were fundamentally this: 
the appraisement of one's life and character — not by 
the all-seeing Eye of Heaven (before which I would 
bow), but by the vindictively unjust verdict of the 
people one has tried to serve — the judgment not of 
50 



God, but of public opinion. That is a judgment of 
which all who strive for power must admit the 
relevancy ! 

doctor. You distress yourself unnecessarily, dear 
lord. Your reputation is safe from detraction now. 

statesman. With urgency I set my mind to meet 
the charge. If I could understand the meaning of 
that yellow visitation, then I should no longer have 
to fear that I was going mad! 

(At this point the door is discreetly opened, 
and the Housekeeper, mild, benign, but 
inflexible, enters, carrying a cup and 
toast-rack upon a tray.) 

housekeeper. I beg pardon, my lord; but I think 
your lordship ought to have your beef-tea now. 

statesman. Yes, yes, Mrs. Manson; come in. 

doctor. You are right, Mrs. Manson; he ought. 

housekeeper {placing the tray on a small stand). 
Where will you have it, my lord? 

statesman. In my inside, Mrs. Manson — pres- 
ently — he, he! 

doctor. Now, let me take your pulse. . . . Yes, 
yes. Pretty good, you know. 

51 



(Mrs. Hanson stands respectfully at atten- 
tion with interrogation in her eye.) 

statesman. Yes, you may bring me my cap now. 
(Then to the Doctor). I generally sleep after this. 

(Mrs. Manson brings a large tasselled fez of 
brilliant color, and adjusts it to his head 
wMle he drinks. She then goes to the 
door, takes a hot-water bottle from the 
hands of an unseen servant and effects 
the necessary changes. All this is done 
so unobtrusively that the Statesman re- 
sumes his theme without regarding her. 
When she has done she goes.) 

Ah! Where was I? 

doctor. If you " could understand/' you said. 

statesman. Ah, yes; understand. Again a 
strange faculty of divination came upon me. I stood 
upon the international plane, amid a congress of 
Powers, and let my eye travel once more over the 
Alliances of Europe. I looked, Doctor, and truly I 
saw, then, surprising shifts and changes in the 
political and diplomatic fabric which I had helped to 
frame. Time, and kingdoms had passed. I saw, at 
home and abroad, the rise of new parties into power, 
strange coalitions, defections, alliances; old balances 
destroyed, new balances set up in their place. I saw 
52 



frontiers annulled, treaties violated, world-problems 
tumbling like clowns, standing on their heads and 
crying, " Here we are again! " Power — after all, had 
solved nothing! 

My eye travelled over that problem of the Near 
East, which, for some generations at least, we* thought 
to have settled, to Vienna, Petersburg, Constantinople 
— and away farther East to Teheran and — that other 
place whose name I have forgotten. And, as I looked, 
a Recording Angel came, and cried to me in a voice 
strangely familiar, the voice of one of my most 
detested colleagues — trusted, I mean — " You have put 
your money on the wrong horse! " 

And I had, Doctor; if what I saw then was true — 
I had! Yes, if ever man blundered and fooled his 
countrymen into a false and fatal position — I was 
that man! It wasn't a question of right or wrong. 
In politics that doesn't really matter; you decide 
on a course, and you invent moral reasons for it 
afterwards. No, what I had done was much worse 
than any mere wrongdoing. All my political fore- 
sight and achievements were a gamble that had gone 
wrong; and for that my Day of Judgment had come, 
and I stood in the pillory, a peepshow for mockery. 
But why for their instrument of torture did they 
choose primroses? Oh, I can invent a reason! It 
was Moses Primrose, cheated of his horse with a gross 
of green spectacles cased in shagreen. But that was 
not the reason. For then came new insight, and a 

53 



fresh humiliation. As I looked more intently I saw 
that I was not being mocked ; I was being worshipped, 
adulated, flattered; I had become a god — for party 
purposes perhaps — and this was my day, given in my 
honour for national celebration. And I saw, by the 
insight given me, that they were praising me for 
having put their money on the wrong horse! Year by 
year the celebration had gone on, until they had so 
got into the habit that they could not leave off! All 
my achievements, all my policies, all my statecraft 
were in the dust; but the worship of me had become 
a national habit — so foolish and meaningless, that 
nothing, nothing but some vast calamity — some great 
social upheaval, was ever going to stop it. 

doctor. My dear lord, it is I who must stop it 
now. You mustn't go on. 

statesman. I have done, Doctor. There I have 
given you the essentials of my dream; material 
depressing enough for the mind of »an old man, 
enfeebled by indisposition, at the end of a long day's 
work. But I tell you, Doctor, that nothing therein 
which stands explainable fills me with such repulsion 
and aversion as that one thing which I cannot explain 
— why, why primroses? 

doctor. A remarkable dream, my lord; rendered 
more vivid — or, as you say, " real " — by your present 
disturbed state of health. As to that part of it 
54 



which you find so inexplicable, I can at least point 
toward where the explanation lies. It reduces itself 
to this: primroses had become associated for you — 
in a way which *you have forgotten — with something 
you wished to avoid. And so they became the image, 
or symbol, of your .aversion; and as such found a 
place in your dream. 

(Soisayingtthe doctor rises and moves toward 
the window, where his attention sud- 
denly becomes riveted.) 

statesman. Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps, as you say 
there is some such explanation. But I don't feel like 
that. 

doctor. Why, here are primroses! This may be 
the clue? Where do they come from? 

statesman. Ah, those! Indeed, I had forgotten 
them. At least; no, I could not have done that. 

doctor. There is a written card with them, I see. 

statesman. Her Gracious Majesty did me the 
great honour, hearing that I was ill, to send and 
inquire. Of course, since my removal from office, 
the opportunity of presenting my personal homage 
has not been what it used to be. That, I suppose, 
is as well. 

doctor. And these are from her Majesty? 

55 



statesman. They came yesterday, brought by a 
special messenger, with a note written by her own 
hand, saying that she had picked them herself. To 
so great a condescension 1 made with all endeavour 
what return I could. I wrote — a difficult thing for 
me to do, Doctor, just now — presented my humble 
duty, my thanks; and said they were my favourite 
flower. 

doctor. And were they? 

statesman. Of course, Doctor, under those cir- 
cumstances any flower would have been. It just 
happened to be that. 

doctor. Well, my lord, there, then, the matter 
is explained. You had primroses upon your mind. 
The difficulty, the pain even, of writing with your 
crippled hand, became associated with them. You 
would have much rather not had to write; and the 
disinclination, in an exaggerated form, got into your 
dream. Now that, I hope, mitigates for you the 
annoyance — the distress of mind. 

statesman. Yes, yes. It does, as you say, make 
it more understandable. Bring them to me, Doctor; 
let me look my enemy in the face. 

(The Doctor carries the bowl across and sets 
it beside him. Very feebly he reaches 
out a hand and takes some.) 
56 



My favourite flower. He — he! My favourite flower. 

{Lassitude overtakes him — his head nods and 
droops as he speaks.) 

A primrose by the river's brim 

A yellow primrose was to him ; 

And it was nothing more. 

Who was it wrote that? — Byron or Dr. Watts? My 
memory isn't what it used to be. No matter. It all 
goes into the account. 

My favourite flower! 
" For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen of the May! " 

{The Doctor takes up his hat, and tiptoes to 
the door.) 

Tell me, where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished? 

{He breaks, and lets the petals fall one by 

one.) 
{The Doctor goes out.) 

Let us all ring fancy's knell; 
I'll begin it — Ding-dong bell, 
Ding-dong, bell. 

{He goes to sleep.) 

CURTAIN 

57 



The Comforter 



59 



Dramatis Personam 

W. E. Gladstone Lord Rendel 

Mrs. Gladstone Mr. John Morley 

A Parlour-Maid 



60 



The Comforter 

A Political Finale 

The Scene is a sitting-room in Downing Street. The 
date March, 1894. The time 10.30 p.m. 

Mrs. Gladstone sits before the fire, on a sofa com- 
fortable for two, finishing off a piece of knitting. 
Apparently she has just rung the bell, on the 
arrival from the dining-room of her husband and 
his two guests, for presently the door opens and 
the maid presents herself for orders. Mr. Glad- 
stone takes down from the bookshelf a backgam- 
mon board, which he opens upon a small table 
somewhat distant from the fireplace. 

Gladstone. Well, Rendel, draughts, or back- 
gammon? 

rendel. It was backgammon you promised me. 

Gladstone. A rubber? 

rendel. I shall be delighted. 

{They seat themselves, and begin to set the 
board. Mr. Morley stands detached 
looking on, grave, not quite at ease.) 

61 



mrs. g. (to the parlour-maid) . Jane, bring up the 
wine, and some biscuits. 

jane. Whisky, ma'am? 

mrs. g. No, no; biscuits. Soft biscuits for the 
other gentlemen, and some hard ones for the master. 

jane. Yes, ma'am. 

(She goes, and in a jew minutes returns, sets 
wine and biscuits on the side-table, and 
retires.) 

MORLEY (to GLADSTONE). Now? 

Gladstone. If you will be so good, my dear 
Morley, I shall be much obliged. 

(Sloivly and thoughtfully Mr. Morley goes 
over to fireplace, where he stands look- 
ing at Mrs. Gladstone, who is now begin- 
ning to " cast-off " a completed piece of 
knitting. The rattle of the dice is 
heard.) 

Gladstone. You play. 

(Thereafter, as the game proceeds, the dice 
are heard constantly.) 

morley. Well, dear lady? 

mrs. g. Well, Mr. Morley? So Mr. Gladstone 
is at his game, and has sent you -to talk to me. 
62 



morley. Precisely. You have guessed right. 

mrs. g. He always thinks of me. 

morley. Yes. 

mrs. g. Won't you sit down, Mr. Morley? 

morley. By you? With pleasure. 

mrs. g. And how is the world using you? 

morley. Like Balaam's ass. The angel of the 
Lord stands before me with a drawn sword, and my 
knees quail under me. 

mrs. g. I thought you didn't believe in angels, 
Mr. Morley. 

morley. In the scriptural sense, no. In the 
political, they are rare; but one meets them — 
sometimes. 

mrs. g. And then they frighten you? 

morley. They make a coward of me. I want to 
temporise — put off the inevitable. But it's no good. 
Angels have to be faced. That's the demand they 
make on us. 

mrs. g. You have something on your mind. 

morley. Yes. But we'll not talk about it — yet. 

63 



mrs. g. I have something on mine. 

morley. Anything serious? 

mrs. c. It concerns you, Mr. Morley. Would you 
very much mind accepting a gift not originally 
intended for you? 

morley. I have accepted office on those terms 
before now. 

mrs. g. Ah! Mr. Gladstone has always so trusted 
you. 

morley. Yes. 

mrs. g. More than he has most people. 

morley. I have been finding that out. It has 
become a habit, I'm afraid. I can't cure him. 

mrs. G. What I had on my mind, Mr. Morley, was 
this: I have knitted this comforter for you; at least, 
it's for you if you would like it. 

morley. Angel ! 

mrs. g. Does that mean that you don't want it? 

morley. Oh, no! It will be very good discipline 
for me; made by you, I shall have to wear it. 

mrs. g. But you know, it's a very remarkable 
thing that I can offer it you. Ever since we married 

6 4 



I have been knitting comforters for Mr. Gladstone, 
which he has always either been losing or giving 
away. This is the first time I have been able to get 
ahead of him. He still has two. Isn't that a 
triumph? 

morley. It is, indeed. 

mrs. g. He's more careful now, and doesn't lose 
them. He begins to feel, I suppose, that he's getting 
old — and needs them. 

morley. You surprise me! Why, he is not yet 
ninety ! 

mrs. g. Do you know, he still sleeps like a child! 
Sometimes I lie awake to watch him. It's wonderful! 

morley. It's habit, madam; that, and force of 
will. 

mrs. g. And really it is only then I can feel that 
he quite belongs to me. All the rest of the time it's 
a struggle. 

morley. In which you have won. 

mrs. g. Have I? 

morley. Every time. 

mrs. g. (wistfully). Do I, Mr. Morley? 

65 



morley. It is you, more than anything, who have 
kept him young. 

mrs. g. Oh, no! I'm the ageing influence. 

morley. I don't believe it. 

mrs. g. Yes; I stand for caution, prudence. He's 
like a great boy. . . . You don't think so; you see 
the other side of his character. But here have I 
been, sixty years, trying to make him take advice! 

morley. And sometimes succeeding. Gods, and 
their makers! What a strange world! 

mrs. g. Spending one's life feeding a god on beef- 
tea, that's been my work. (The dear lady sighs.) 

morley. And making comforters for him. 

mrs. g. It's terrible when he won't take it! 

morley. The beef- tea? 

mrs. G. No, the advice. For I'm generally right, 
you know. 

morley. I can well believe it. Strange to think 
how the welfare and destiny of the nation have 
sometimes lain here — in this gentle hand. 

mrs. g. We do jump in the dark so, don't we? 
Who can say what is really best for anyone? 
66 



morley. And prescribing for a god is more 
difficult. 

mrs. g. Much more. 

morley. So when he comes to ask a mere mortal 
for advice — well, now you must judge how difficult 
it has been for me! 

mrs. g. Have you been giving him advice? 

morley. In a way; yes. 

mrs. g. And has he taken it? 

morley. A few days ago he told me of a resolution 
he had come to. I could not disapprove. But now 
I wonder how it is going to strike you? 

mrs. g. Has anything special happened? He has 
not told me. 

morley (gravely). To-morrow, or the day after, 
he will be going down to Windsor. 

mrs. g. Oh, I'm sorry! That always depresses 
him. He and the Queen don't get on very well 
together. 

morley. They will get on well enough this time, 
I imagine. 

mrs. g. {a little bit alarmed). Does that mean — 
any change of policy? 

67 



morley. Of policy — I hope not. Of person — yes. 

mrs. G. Is anyone leaving the Cabinet? 

morley. We may all be leaving it, very soon. 
He asked me to tell you; he had promised Rendel a 
game. Look how he is enjoying it! 

mrs. g. (shrewdly). Ah! then I expect he is 
winning. 

morley. Oh? I should not have called him a 
bad loser. 

mrs. g. No; but he likes winning better — the 
excitement of it. 

morley. That is only human. Yes, he has been 
a great winner — sometimes. 

mrs. g. When has he ever lost — except just for 
the time? He always knows that. 

morley. Ah, yes! To quote your own sprightly 
phrase, we — he and the party with him — are always 
" popping up again." 

mrs. g. When did I say that? 

morley. Seven years ago, when we began to win 
bye-elections on the Irish question. The bye-elections 
are not going so well for us just now. 
68 



mrs. g. But the General Election will. 

morley. Perhaps one will — in another seven years 
or so. 

mrs. g. But isn't there to be one this year? 

morley (gravely). The Cabinet has decided against 
it. 

mrs. g. But Mr. Morley! Now the Lords have 
thrown out the Irish Bill there must be an election. 

morley. That was Mr. Gladstone's view. 

mrs. g. Wasn't it yours, too? 

morley. Yes; but we couldn't — we couldn't carry 
the others. 

mrs. g. Then you mean Mr. Gladstone is going 
to form a new Cabinet? 

morley. No. A new Cabinet is going to be 
formed, but he will not be in it. That is his resolu- 
tion. I was to tell you. 

(At this news of the downfall of her hopes the 
gentle face becomes piteously woeful; 
full of wonder also.) 

mrs. g. He asked you — to tell me that! 

morley. Yes. 

69 



mrs. G. Oh! Then he really means it! Had 
he been in any doubt he would have consulted me. 

(Tears have now come to sustain the dear 
lady in her sense of desolation. Mr. 
Morley, with quiet philosophy, does his 
twst to give eomfort.) 

morley. It was the only thing to do. Ireland 
kept him in politics; if that goes, he goes with it. 

mrs. g. But Ireland — doesn't go. 

morley. As the cause for a General Election it 
goes, I'm afraid. 

mrs. g. But that isn't honest, Mr. Morley! 

morley. I agree. 

mrs. g. And it won't do any good — not in the 
end. 

morley. To that also, I agree. Ireland remains; 
and the problem will get worse. 

mrs. g. But, indeed, you are wrong, Mr. Morley! 
It was not Ireland that kept my husband in politics; 
it was Mr. Chamberlain. 

morley. That is a view which, I confess, had not 
occurred to me. Chamberlain? 
70 



mks. g. No one could have kept Mr. Chamberlain 
from leading the Liberal party, except Mr. Glad- 
stone. And now he never will! 

morley. That, certainly, is a triumph, of a kind. 
You think that influenced him? Chamberlain was 
a friend of mine once — is still, in a way. (He pauses, 
then adds ruefully) Politics are a cruel game! 

(He sighs and sits depressed. But mention 
of her husband's great antagonist has 
made the old lady brisk again.) 

mrs. g. Do you know, Mr. Morley, that if Mr. 
Gladstone had not made me pray for that man 
every night of my life, I should positively have 
hated him. 

morley (with a touch of mischief). You do that? 
— still? Tell me — (I am curious) — do you pray for 
him as plain " Joe Chamberlain," or do you put in 
the " Mister "? 

mrs. g. I never mention his name at all; I leave 
that to Providence — to be understood. 

morley. Well, it has been understood, and 
answered — abundantly; Chamberlain's star is in 
the ascendant again. It's strange; he and Mr. Glad- 
stone never really got on together. 

7i 



mrs. g. I don't think he ever really tried — much. 

morley. Didn't he? Oh, you don't mean Mr. 
Gladstone? 

mrs. g. And then, you see, the Queen never liked 
him. That has counted for a good deal. 

morley. It has — curiously. 

mrs. g. Now why should it, Mr. Morley? She 
ought not to have such power — any more than I. 

morley. How can it be kept from either of you? 
During the last decade this country has been living 
on two rival catchwords, which in the field of 
politics have meant much — the " Widow at Windsor," 
and the " Grand Old Man." And these two makers 
of history are mentally and temperamentally incom- 
patible. That has been the tragedy. This is her day, 
dear lady; but it won't always be so. 

mrs. G. Mr. Morley, who is going to be — who will 
take Mr. Gladstone's place? 

morley. Difficult to say: the Queen may make 
her own choice. Spencer, perhaps; though I rather 
doubt it; probably Harcourt. 

mrs. g. Shall you serve under him? 

morley. I haven't decided. 

72 



mrs. c You won't. 

morley. Possibly not. We are at the end of a 
dispensation. Whether I belong to the new one, I 
don't yet know. 

mrs. g. The Queen will be pleased, at any rate. 

morley. Delighted. 

mrs. g. Will she offer him a peerage, do you 
think? 

morley. Oh, of course. 

mrs. g. Yes. And she knows he won't accept it. 
So that gives her the advantage of seeming — mag- 
nanimous ! 

morley. Dear lady, you say rather terrible things 
— sometimes! You pray for the Queen, too, I sup- 
pose; or don't you? 

mrs. g. Oh yes; but that's different. I don't feel 
with her that it's personal. She was always against 
him. It was her bringing up; she couldn't help being. 

morley. So was Chamberlain; so was Harcourt; 
so was everybody. He is the loneliest man, in a 
great position, that I have ever known. 

mrs. g. Till he met you, Mr. Morley. 

73 



morley. I was only speaking of politics. Sixty- 
years ago he met you. 

mrs. G. Nearly sixty-three. 

morley. Three to the good; all the better! 

mrs. G. {having finished off the comforter). There! 
that is finished now! 

morley. A thousand thanks; so it is to be mine, 
is it? 

mrs. g. I wanted to say, Mr. Morley, how good 
I think you have always been to me. 

morley. I, dear lady? I? 

mrs. g. I must so often have been in the way 
without knowing it. You see, you and I think 
differently. We belong to different schools. 

morley. If you go on, I shall have to say " angel," 
again. That is all I can say. 

mrs. g. (tremulously). Oh, Mr. Morley, you will 
tell me! Is this the end? Has he — has he, after 
all, been a failure? 

morley. My dear lady, he has been an epoch. 

mrs. g. Aren't epochs failures, sometimes? 
74 



morley. Even so, they count; we have to 
reckon with them. No, he is no failure; though it 
may seem like it just now. Don't pay too much 
attention to what the papers will say. He doesn't, 
though he reads them. Look at him now! — does 
that look like failure? 

{He points to the exuberantly energetic figure 
intensely absorbed in its game.) 

mrs. G. He is putting it on to-night a little, for 
me, Mr. Morley. He knows I am watching him. 
Tell me how he seemed when he first spoke to you. 
Was he feeling it — much? 

morley. Oh, deeply, of course! He believes that 
on a direct appeal we could win the election. 

mrs. G. And you? 

morley. I don't. But all the same I hold it the 
right thing to do. Great causes must face and number 
their defeats. That is how they come to victory. 

mrs. G. And now that will be in other hands, 
not his. Suppose he should not live to see it. Oh, 
Mr. Morley, Mr. Morley, how am I going to bear it! 

morley. Dear lady, I don't usually praise the 
great altitudes. May I speak in his praise, just for 
once, to-night? As a rather faithless man myself — 

75 



not believing or expecting too much of human nature 
— I see him now, looking back, more than anything 
else as a man of faith. 

mrs. g. Ah, yes. To him religion has always meant 
everything. 

morley. Faith in himself, I meant. 

mrs. g. Of course; he had to have that, too. 

morley. And I believe in him still, more now 
than ever. They can remove him; they cannot re- 
move Ireland. He may have made mistakes and 
misjudged characters; he may not have solved the 
immediate problem either wisely or well. But this 
he has done, to our honour and to his own: he has 
given us the cause of liberty as a sacred trust. If 
we break faith with that, we ourselves shall be 
broken — and we shall deserve it. 

mrs. g. You think that — possible? 

morley. I would rather not think anything just 
now. The game is over; I must be going. Good 
night, dear friend; and if you sleep only as well as 
you deserve, I could wish you no better repose. 
Good-bye. 

{He moves toward the tabic from which the 
players are now rising.) 

7 6 



Gladstone. That is a game, my dear Rendel, 
which came to this country nearly eight hundred years 
ago from the Crusades. Previously it had been in 
vogue among the nomadic tribes of the Arabian 
desert for more than a thousand years. It's very 
name, " backgammon," so English in sound, is but 
a corruption from the two Arabic words bacca, and 
gamma (my pronunciation of which stands subject 
to correction), meaning — if I remember rightly — 
" the board game." There, away East, lies its 
origin; its first recorded appearance in Europe was 
at the Sicilian Court of the Emperor Frederick II; 
and when the excommunication of Rome fell on him 
in the year 1283, tne game was placed under an 
interdict, which, during the next four hundred years, 
was secretly but sedulously disregarded within those 
impregnably fortified places of learning and piety, to 
which so much of our Western civilisation is due, the 
abbeys and other scholastic foundations of the 
Benedictine order. The book-form, in which the 
board still conceals itself, stands as a memorial of 
its secretive preservation upon the shelves of the 
monastic libraries. I keep my own, with a certain 
touch of ritualistic observance, between this seven- 
teenth century edition of the works of Roger Bacon 
and this more modern one, in Latin, of the writings 
of Thomas Aquinas; both of whom may not im- 
probably have been practitioners of the game. 

77 



rendel. Very interesting, very interesting. 

(During this recitation Mr. Gladstone has 
neatly packed away the draughts and the 
dice, shutting them into their case finally 
and restoring it to its place upon the 
bookshelf.) 

Gladstone. My dear, I have won the rubber. 

mrs. G. Have you, my dear? I'm very glad, if 
Lord Rendel does not mind. 

rendel. To be beaten by Mr. Gladstone, ma'am, 
is a liberal education in itself. 

morley (to his host). I must say good-night, now, 
sir. 

Gladstone. What, my dear Morley, must you be 
going? 

morley. For one of my habits it is almost late — 
eleven. 

rendel. In that case I must be going, too. Can 
I drop you anywhere, Morley? 

morley. Any point, not out of your way, in the 
direction of my own door, I shall be obliged. 

rendel. With pleasure. I will come at once. 
78 



And so — good-night, Mrs. Gladstone. Mr. Prime 
Minister, good-night. 

Gladstone. Good-night, Rendel. 

morley (aside to Mr. Gladstone). I have done 
what you asked of me, sir. 

Gladstone. I thank you. Good-night. 

(The two guests have gone; and husband and 
wife are left alone. He approaches, and 
stands near.) 

So Morley has told you, my dear? 

mrs. g. That you are going down to Windsor 
to-morrow? Yes, William. You will want your best 
frock- suit, I suppose? 

Gladstone. My best and my blackest would be 
seemly under the circumstances, my love. This treble- 
dated crow will keep the obsequies as strict as Court 
etiquette requires, or as his wardrobe may allow. 
I have a best suit, I suppose? 

mrs. g. Yes, William. I keep it put away for 
you. 

Gladstone (after a meditative pause begins to 
recite). 

79 



" Come, thou who art the wine and wit 
Of all I've writ: 

The grace, the glory, and the best 
Piece of the rest, 
Thou art, of what I did intend, 
The all and end; 

And what was made, was made to meet 
Thee, thee, my sheet! " 

Herrick, to his shroud, my dear! A poet who has 
the rare gift of being both light and spiritual in the 
same breath. Read Herrick at his gravest, when 
you need cheering; you will always find him helpful. 

mrs. g. Then — will you read him to me to-night, 
William? 

Gladstone. Why, certainly, my love, if you wish. 

(He stoops and kisses her.) 

mrs. g. (speaking very gently). I was waiting for 
that. 

Gladstone. And I was waiting — for what you have 
to say. 

mrs. g. I can say nothing. 

Gladstone. Why, nothing? 

mrs. g. Because I can't be sure of you, my dear. 
You've done this before. 
80 



Gladstone. This time it has been done for me. 
My own say in the matter has been merely to 
acquiesce. 

mrs. g. Ah! so you say! And others — others 
may say it for you; but 

Gladstone. Anno Domini says it, my dear. 

mrs. g. Anno Domini has been saying it for the 
last twenty years. Much heed you paid to Anno 
Domini. 

Gladstone. You never lent it the weight of your 
counsels, my own love — till now. 

mrs. g. I know, William, when talking is useless. 

Gladstone. Ah! I wonder — if I do. 

mrs. g. No; that's why I complain. Twenty 
years ago you said you were going to retire from 
politics and take up theology again — that you were 
old, and had come to an end. Why, you were only 
just beginning! And it will always be the same; 
any day something may happen — more Bulgarian 
atrocities, or a proposal for Welsh disestablishment. 
Then you'll break out again! 

Gladstone. But I am in favour of Welsh dis- 
establishment, my dear — when it comes. 

81 



mrs. G. Are you? Oh, yes; I forgot. You are 
in favour of so many things you didn't used to be. 
Well, then, it will be something else. You will 
always find an excuse; I shall never feel safe about 
you. 

Gladstone (in moved tone). And if you could feel 
safe about me — what then? 

mrs. G. Oh, my dear, my dear, if I could! Always 
I've seen you neglecting yourself — always putting 
aside your real interests — the things that you most 
inwardly cared about, the things which you always 
meant to do when you " had time." And here I 
have had to sit and wait for the time that never 
came. Isn't that true? 

Gladstone. There is an element of truth in it, my 
dear. 

mrs. g. Well, twenty years have gone like that, 
and you've " had no time." Oh, if you could only 
go back to the things you meant to do, twenty years 
ago — and take them up, just where you left off — 
why, I should see you looking — almost young again. 
For you've been looking tired lately, my dear. 

Gladstone. Tired? Yes: I hoped not to have 
shown it. But three weeks ago I had to own to my- 
self that I was beginning to feel tired. I went to 
Crichton Browne (I didn't tell you, my love); he 
82 



said there was nothing the matter with me — except 
old age. 

mrs. g. You should have come to me, my dear; 
I could have told you the only thing to do. 

Gladstone. Is it too late to tell me now? 

mrs. g. Yes; because now you've done it, with- 
out my advice, William. Think of that! For the 
first time! 

Gladstone {gravely surprised). So you have been 
wishing it, have you? 

{And the devoted wife, setting her face, and 
steadying her voice, struggles on to give 
him what comfort she may, in the denial 
of her most cherished hopes.) 

mrs. g. I've been v/aiting, waiting, waiting for it 
to come. But it was the one thing I couldn't say, 
till you — till you thought of it yourself! 

Gladstone. Did I do so? Or did others think 
of it for me? I'm not sure; I'm not sure. My 
judgment of the situation differed from theirs. I 
couldn't carry them with me. In my own Cabinet 
I was a defeated man. Only Morley stood by me 
then. 

{Deep in the contemplation of his last politi- 
cal defeat, he is not looking at her face; 

8 3 



and that is as well. Her voice summons 
him almost cheerfully from his reverie.) 

mrs. g. William dear, can you come shopping 
with me to-morrow? Oh, no, to-morrow you are 
going to Windsor. The day after, then. 

Gladstone. What is that for, my dear? 

mrs. g. We have to get something for Dorothy's 
birthday, before we go home. You mustn't forget 
things like that, you know. Dorothy is important. 

Gladstone. Not merely important, my love; she 
is a portent — of much that we shall never know. 
Dorothy will live to see the coming of the new age. 

mrs. g. The new age? Well, so long as you let 
it alone, my dear, it may be as new as it likes; I 
shan't mind. 

Gladstone. We will leave Dorothy to manage it 
her own way. 

mrs. g. Then you will shop with me — not to- 
morrow — Thursday ? 

Gladstone. Piccadilly, or Oxford Street? 

mrs. g. I thought Gamage's. 

Gladstone. Holborn? That sounds adventurous. 
Yes, my love, I will shop with you on Thursday — if 
84 



all goes well at Windsor to-morrow — with all the 
contentment in the world. {They kiss.) Now go 
to bed; and presently I will come and read Herrick 
to you. 

(She gets up and goes toward the door, when 
her attention is suddenly arrested by the 
carpet.) 

mrs. g. William! Do you see how this carpet 
is wearing out? We shall have to get a new one. 

Gladstone. It won't be necessary now. Those 
at Ha warden, if I remember rightly, are sufficiently 
new to last out our time. 

mrs. g. I wish I could think so, my dear. They 
would if you didn't give them such hard wear, walking 
about on them. The way you wear things out has 
been my domestic tragedy all along! 

Gladstone (standing with folded hands before her). 
My love, I have just remembered ; I have a confession 
to make. 

mrs. g. What, another? Oh, William! 

Gladstone. I cannot find either of my comforters. 
I'm afraid I have lost them. I had both this morning, 
and now both are gone. 

mrs. g. Why, you are worse than ever, my dear! 

85 



Both in one day! You have not done that for 
twenty years. 

Gladstone. I am sorry. I won't do it again. 

mrs. G. Ah! so you say! Poor Mr. Morley will 
have to wait now. I had promised him this. There! 

{Making him sit down, she puts the com- 
forter round his neck, and gives him a 
parting kiss.) 

And now I'm going. 

Gladstone. Go, my love! I will come presently. 

(But he has not quite got rid of her. Her 
hands are now reaching down to the 
back of the sofa behind him.) 

What are you looking for? 

mrs. g. My knitting-needles. You are sitting on 
them. Now mind, you are not to sit up! 

Gladstone. I won't sit up long. 

(Quietly and serenely she goes to the door, 
looks back for a moment, then glides 
through it, leaving behind a muck- 
deceived husband, who will not hear the 
sound of her solitary weeping, or see any 
signs of it on her face when presently 
86 



he comes to read Herrick at her bed- 
side.) 
(For while he sits silent, peacefully encom- 
passed in the thoughts with which she 
has provided him; then very slowly he 
speaks.) 
Gladstone. Well, if it pleases her — I suppose it 
must be right! 

CURTAIN 



87 



Possession 



89 



Dramatis Persons 



Julia Robinson 
Laura James 
Martha Robinson 
Susan Robinson 
Thomas Robinson 
William James 
Hannah . 



Sisters 

Their Mother 
Their Father 

Husband to Laura James 
The family servant 



90 



Possession 

A Peep-Show in Paradise 

Scene.— The Everlasting Habitations 

It is evening (or so it seems) and to the comfortably 
furnished Victorian drawing-room a middle-aged 
maid-servant in cap and apron brings a lamp and 
proceeds to draw blinds and close curtains. To do 
this she po,sses the fire-place, where before a 
pleasantly bright hearth sits, comfortably sedate, 
an elderly lady whose countenance and attitude 
suggest the very acme of genteel repose. She is a 
handsome woman, very conscious of herself, but 
carrying the burden of her importance with an ease 
which, in her own mind, leaves nothing to be 
desired. The once-striking outline of her features 
has been rounded by good feeding to a softness 
which is merely physical; and her voice, when she 
speaks, has a calculated gentleness very caressing 
to her own ear, and a little irritating to others who 
are not of an inferior class. Menials like it, how- 

9i 



ever . The room, though over-upholstered, and not 
furnished with any more individual taste than that 
which gave its generic stamp to the great Victorian 
period, is the happy possessor of some good things. 
Upon the mantel-shelf, backed by a large mirror, 
stands old china in alternation with alabaster jars, 
under domed shades, and tall vases encompassed 
by pendant ringlets of glass-lustre. Rose-wood, 
walnut, and mahogany make a well-wooded inte- 
rior; and in the dates thus indicated there is a 
touch of Georgian. But, over and above these 
mellowing features of a respectable ancestry, the 
annunciating Angel of the Great Exhibition of 
1 85 1 has spread a brooding wing. And while the 
older articles are treasured on account of family 
association, the younger and newer stand erected 
in places of honour by reason of an intrinsic 
beauty never previously attained to. Through 
this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled 
the too vast orb of its fate, and left fifty years 
after {if we may measure the times of Heaven 
by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark 
which nothing is likely to erase. Upon the small 
table where Hannah the servant deposits the lamp 
lies a piece of crochet-work. The fair hands that 
have been employed on it are folded on a lap of 
corded silk representing the fashions of the nine- 
ties, and the grey-haired beauty that once was sits 
contemplative, wearing a cap of creamish lace, 



92 



tastejully arranged, not unaware that in the en- 
tering lamp-light, and under the fire's soft glow 
of approval, she presents to her domestic's eye an 
improving picture of gentility. It is to Miss 
Julia Robinson's credit — and she herself places it 
there emphatically — that she always treats serv- 
ants humanly — though at a distance. And when 
she now speaks she confers her slight remark just 
a little as though it were a favour. 

julia. How the days are drawing out, Hannah. 

hannah. Yes, Ma'am; nicely aren't they? 

{For Hannah, being old-established, may say 
a thing or two not in the strict order. In 
fact, it may be said that, up to a well- 
understood paint, character is encour- 
aged in her, and is allowed to peep 
through in her remarks.) 

julia. What time is it? 

hannah (looking with better eyes than her mistress 
at the large ormulu clock which records eternally the 
time of the great Exhibition). Almost a quarter to 
six, Ma'am. 

julia. So late? She ought to have been here 
long ago. 

hannah. Who, Ma'am, did you say, Ma'am? 

93 



julia. My sister, Mrs. James. You remember? 

hannah. What, Miss Martha, Ma'am? Well! 

julia. No, it's Miss Laura this time: you didn't 
know she had married, I suppose? 

hannah (with a world of meaning, well under con- 
trol). No, Ma'am. (A pause.) I made up the bed 
in the red room; was that right, Ma'am? 

julia {archly surprised). What? Then you knew 
someone was coming? Why did you pretend, Hannah? 

hannah. Well, Ma'am, you see, you hadn't told 
me before. 

julia. I couldn't. One cannot always be sure. 
(This mysteriously.) But something tells me now 
that she is to be with us. I have been expecting her 
over four days. 

hannah (picking her phrases a little, as though on 
doubtful ground). It must be a long way, Ma'am. 
Did she make a comfortable start, Ma'am? 

julia. Very quietly, I'm told. No pain. 

hannah. I wonder what she'll be able to eat now, 
Ma'am. She was always very particular. 

julia. I daresay you will be told soon enough. 
94 



( Thus in veiled words she conveys that Hannah knows 
something of Mrs. James's character). 

hannah (resignedly). Yes, M'm 



julia. I don't think I'll wait any longer. If you'll 
bring in tea now. Make enough for two, in case: 
pour it off into another pot, and have it under the 
tea-cosy. 

hannah. Yes, Ma'am. 

(Left alone, the dear lady enjoys the sense of 
herself and the small world of her own 
thoughts in solitude. Then she sighs 
indulgently.) 

julia. Yes, I suppose I would rather it had been 
Martha. Poor Laura! (She puts out her hand for her 
crochet, when it is arrested by the sound of a knock, 
rather rapacious in character.) Ah, that's Laura all 
over! 

(Seated quite composedly and fondling her 
well-kept hands, she awaits the moment 
of arrival. Very soon the door opens, 
and the over-expected Mrs. James — a 
luxuriant garden of widow's weeds, 
enters. She is a lady more strongly and 
sharply featured than her sister, but 
there is nothing thin-lipt about her; with 

95 



resolute eye and mouth a little grim, yet 
pleased at so finding herself, she steps 
into this chamber of old memories and 
cherished possessions, which translation 
to another and a better world has made 
hers again. For a moment she sees the 
desire of her eyes and is satisfied; but 
for a moment only. The apparition of 
another already in possession takes her 
aback.) 

julia (with soft effusiveness) . Well, Laura! 

laura (startled). Julia! 

julia. Here you are! 

laura. Whoever thought of rinding you? 

julia (sweetly). Didn't you? 

(They have managed to embrace: but Laura 
continues to have her grievance.) 

laura. No! not for a moment. I really thought 
they might have told me. What brought you? 

julia. Our old home, Laura. It was a natural 
choice, I think, as one was allowed to choose. I 
suppose you were? 

laura (her character showing). I didn't ask any- 
one's leave to come. 

9 6 



julia. And how are you? 

laura. I don't know; I want my tea. 

julia. Hannah is just bringing it. 

laura. Who's Hannah? 

julia. Our Hannah: our old servant. Didn't she 
open the door to you? 

laura. What? Come back, has she? 

julia. I found her here when I came, seven years 
ago. I didn't ask questions. Here she is. 

(Enter Hannah with the tea-tray.) 

laura (with a sort of grim jocosity). How d'ye do, 
Hannah? 

hannah. Nicely thank you, Ma'am. How are 
you Ma'am? 

(Hannah, as she puts down the tray, is pre- 
pared to have her hand shaken: for it is 
a long time (thirty years or so in earthly 
measure) since they met. But Mrs. 
James is not so cordial as all that.) 

laura. I'm very tired. 

julia. You've come a long way. 

97 



(But Laura's sharp attention has gone else- 
where.) 

laura. Hannah, what have you got my best tray 
for? You know that is not to be used every day. 

julia. It's all right, Laura. You don't understand. 

laura. What don't I understand? 

julia. Here one always uses the best. Nothing 
wears out or gets broken. 

laura. Then where's the pleasure of it? If one 
always uses them and they never break — ' best ' means 
nothing! 

julia. It is a little puzzling at first. You must 
be patient. 

laura. I'm not a child, Julia. 

julia (beautifully ignoring). A little more coal, 
please, Hannah. (Then to her sister as she pours out 
the tea.) And how did you leave everybody? 

laura. Oh, pretty much as usual. Most of 'em 
having colds. That's how I got mine. Mrs. Hilliard 
came to call and left it behind her. I went out with 
it in an east wind and that finished me. 

julia. Oh, but how provoking! (She wishes to 
98 



be sympathetic ; but this is a line of conversation she 
instinctively avoids.) 

laura. No, Julia ! . . . ( This, delivered with force, 
arrests the criminal intention.) No sugar. To think 
of your forgetting that! 

julia {most sweetly). Milk? 

laura. Yes ; you know I take milk. 

(Crossing over, but sitting away from the 
tea-table, she lets her sister wait on her.) 

julia. Did Martha send me any message? 

laura. How could she? She didn't know I was 
coming. 

julia. Was it so sudden? 

laura. I sent for her and she didn't come. Think 
of that! 

julia. Oh! She would be sorry. Tea-cake? 

laura (taking the tea-cake that is offered her). I'm 
not so sure. She was nursing Edwin's boy through 
the measles, so of course / didn't count. (Nosing 
suspiciously.) Is this China tea? 

julia. If you like to think it. You have as you 
choose. How is our brother, Edwin? 

99 



laura. His wife's more trying than ever. Julia, 
what a fool that woman is ! 

julia. Well, let's hope he doesn't know it. 

laura. He must know. I've told him. She sent 
a wreath to my funeral, " With love and fond affection 
from Emily." Fond fiddlesticks! Humbug! She 
knows I can't abide her. 

julia. I suppose she thought it was the correct 
thing. 

laura. And I doubt if it cost more than ten shil- 
lings. Now Mrs. Dobson — you remember her: she 
lives in Tudor Street with a daughter one never sees — 
something wrong in her head, and has fits — she sent 
me a cross of lilies, white lilac, and stephanotis, as 
handsome as you could wish; and a card — and I 
forget what was on the card. . . . Julia, when you 
died — — 

julia. Oh, don't Laura! 

laura. Well, you did die, didn't you? 

julia. Here one doesn't talk of it. That's over. 
There are things you will have to learn. 

laura. What I was going to say was — when I 
died I found my sight was much better. I could read 
all the cards without my glasses. Do you use glasses? 
ioo 



julia. Sometimes, for association. I have these 
of our dear Mother's in her tortoise-shell case. 

laura. That reminds me. Where is our Mother? 

julia. She comes — sometimes. 

laura. Why isn't she here always? 

julia (with pained sweetness). I don't know, 
Laura. I never ask questions. 

laura. Really, Julia, I shall be afraid to open my 
mouth presently! 

julia (long-suffering still). When you see her you 
will understand. I told her you were coming, so I 
daresay she will look in. 

laura. 'Look in'! 

julia. Perhaps. That is her chair, you remember. 
She always sits there, still. 

(Enter Hannah with the coal.) 

Just a little on, please, Hannah — only a little. 

laura. This isn't China tea: it's Indian, three 
and sixpenny. 

julia. Mine is ten shilling China. 

laura. Lor' Julia! How are you able to afford it? 

IOI 



julia. A little imagination goes a long way here, 
you'll find. Once I tasted it. So now I can always 
taste it. 

laura. Well! I wish I'd known. 

julia. Now you do. 

laura. But I never tasted tea at more than three- 
and-six. Had I known, I could have got two ounces 
of the very best, and had it when 

julia. A lost opportunity. Life is full of them. 

laura. Then you mean to tell me that if I had 
indulged more then, I could indulge more now? 

julia. Undoubtedly. As I never knew what it was 
to wear sables, I have to be content with ermine. 

laura. Lor', Julia, how paltry! 

{While this conversation has been going on 
a gentle old lady has appeared upon the 
scene, unnoticed and unannounced. One 
perceives, that is to say, that the high- 
backed arm-chair beside the fire, shel- 
tered by a screen from all possibility of 
draughts, has an occupant. Dress and 
appearance show a doubly septuagena- 
rian character: at the age of seventy, 
102 



which in this place she retains as the 
hall-mark of her earthly pilgrimage, she 
belongs also to the ' seventies ' of the 
last century, wears watered silk, and 
retains under her cap a shortened and 
stiff er version of the side-curls with 
which she and all ' the sex ' captivated 
the hearts of Charles Dickens and other 
novelists in their early youth. She has 
soft and indeterminate features, and 
when she speaks her voice, a little 
shaken by the quaver of age, is soft and 
indeterminate also. Gentle and lovable, 
you will be surprised to discover that 
she, also, has a will of her own; but for 
the present this does not show. From 
the dimly illumined corner behind the 
lamp her voice comes soothingly to 
break the discussion.) 

old lady. My dear, would you move the light a 
little nearer? I've dropped a stitch. 

laura (starting up). Why, Mother dear, when did 
you come in? 

julia {interposing with arresting hand). Don't! 
You mustn't try to touch her, or she goes. 

laura. Goes? 

103 



julia. I can't explain. She is not quite herself. 
She doesn't always hear what one says. 

laura (assertively) . She can hear me. (To prove 
it, she raises her voice defiantly.) Can't you, Mother? 

mrs. r. (the voice perhaps reminding her). Jane, 
dear, I wonder what's become of Laura, little Laura: 
she was always so naughty and difficult to manage, 
so different from Martha — and the rest. 



laura. Lor', Julia! Is it as bad as that? Mother, 
* little Laura ' is here sitting in front of you. Don't 
you know me? 

mrs. r. Do you remember, Jane, one day when 
we'd all started for a walk, Laura had forgotten to 
bring her gloves and I sent her back for them? And 
on the way she met little Dorothy Jones, and she 
took her gloves off her, and came back with them just 
as if they were her own. 

laura. What a good memory you have, Mother! 
I remember it too. She was an odious little thing, 
that Dorothy — always so whiney-piney. 

julia. More tea, Laura? 

(Laura pushes her cup at her without remark, 
for she has been kept waiting, then in 
104 



loud tones to suit the one whom she pre- 
sumes to be rather deaf) 

laura. Mother! Where are you living now? 

mrs. r. I'm living, my dear. 

laura. I said ' where? ' 

Julia. We live where it suits us, Laura. 

laura. Julia, I wasn't addressing myself to you. 
Mother, where are you living? . . . Why, where has 
she gone to? 

{For now we perceive that this gentle Old 
Lady so devious in her conversation has 
a power of self-possession, of which, very 
retiringly, she avails herself.) 

julia {improving the occasion as she hands back the 
cup, with that touch of superiority so exasperating to a 
near relative). Now you see! If you press her too 
much, she goes. . . . You'll have to accommodate 
yourself, Laura. 

laura {imposing her own explanation). I think 
you gave me green tea, Julia ... or have had it 
yourself. 

julia {knowing better). The dear Mother seldom 
stays long, except when she finds me alone. 

105 



{Having insinuated this barb into the flesh of 
her ' dear sister ' s-he takes up her cro- 
chet with an air of great contentment. 
Mrs. James, meanwhile, to make herself 
more at home, now that tea is finished, 
undoes her bonnet-strings with a tug, 
and lets them hang. She is not in the 
best of tempers.) 

laura. I don't believe she recognised me. Why- 
did she keep on calling me ' Jane '? 

julia. She took you for poor Aunt Jane, I fancy. 

laura {infuriated at being taken for anyone 
' poor 7 ). Why should she do that, pray? 

julia. Well, there always was a likeness, you 
know; and you are older than you were, Laura. 

laura {crushingly) . Does poor Aunt Jane wear 
widow's weeds? {This reminds her not only of her 
own condition, but of other things as well. She sits 
up and takes a still bigger bite into her new world.) 
Julia! . . . Where's William? 

julia. I haven't inquired. 

laura {self-importance and a sense of duty consum- 
ing her). I wish to see him. 

julia. Better not, as it didn't occur to you before. 
106 



laura. Am I not to see my own husband, pray? 

julia. He didn't ever live here, you know. 

laura. He can come, I suppose. He has got legs 
like the rest of us. 

julia. Yes, but one can't force people: at least, 
not here. You should remember, that — before he 
married you — he had other ties. 

(Mrs. James preserves her self-possession, 
but there is battle in her eye.) 

laura. He was married to me longer than he was 
to Isabel. 

julia. They had children. 

laura. I could have had children if I chose. I 
didn't choose. . . . Julia, how am I to see him? 

julia (washing her hands of it). You must man- 
age for yourself, Laura. 

laura. I'm puzzled! Here are we in the next 

world just as we expected, and where are all the 1 

mean, oughtn't we to be seeing a great many more 
things than, we do? 

julia. What sort of things? 

laura. Well, . . . have you seen Moses and the 
Prophets? 

107 



julia. I haven't looked for them, Laura. On Sun- 
days, I still go to hear Mr. Moore. 

laura. That's you all over! You never would go 
to hear the celebrated preachers. But I mean to. . . . 
What happens here, *on Sundays? 

julia (smiling). Oh, just the same. 

laura. No High Church ways, I hope? If they 
go in for that here, I shall go out! 

julia (patiently explanatory) . You will go out if 
you wish to go out. You can choose your church. 
As I tell you, I always go to hear Mr. Moore; you can 
go and hear Canon Farrar. 

laura. Dean Farrar, I suppose you mean. 

julia. He was not Dean in my day. 

laura. He ought to have been a Bishop — Arch- 
bishop, I think — so learned, and such a magnificent 
preacher. But I still wonder why we don't see Moses 
and the Prophets. 

julia. Well, Laura, it's the world as we know it — 
that for the present. No doubt other things will come 
in time, gradually. But I don't know: I don't ask 
questions. 

laura (doubt j telly) . I suppose it is Heaven, in a 
way, though? 
108 



julia. I have not had occasion to doubt it — yet, 
Laura. 

laura. (who is not going to take theological guid- 
ance from anyone lower than Dean Farrar). Julia, I 
shall start washing the old china again. 

julia. As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here. 

laura. It's all very puzzling. The world seems 
cut in half. Things don't seem real. 

julia. Mere real, I should say. We have them — 
as we wish them to be. 

laura. Then why can't we have our Mother, like 
other things? 

julia. Ah! with persons it is different. We all 
belong to ourselves now. That one has to accept. 

laura (stubbornly). Does William belong to him- 
self? 

julia. I suppose. 

laura. It isn't Scriptural! 

julia. It's better. 

laura. Julia, don't be blasphemous! 

julia. To consult William's wishes, I meant. 

109 



laura. But I want him. I've a right to him. 
If he didn't mean to belong to me he ought not to 
have married me. 

julia. People make mistakes sometimes. 

laura. Then they should stick to them. It's not 
honourable. Julia, I mean to have William! 

julia (resignedly) . You and he must arrange that 
between you. 

laura {making a dash for it). William! William, 
I say! William! 

julia. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! (She 
gasps, but it is too late: the hated word is out.) 

laura (as one who will be obeyed). William! 

(The door does not open; but there appears 
through it the indistinct figure of an 
elderly gentleman with a weak chin and 
a shifting eye. He stands irresolute and 
apprehensive; clearly his presence there 
is perfunctory. Wearing his hat and 
carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to 
have looked in while passing.) 

julia. Apparently you are to have your wish. 
(She waves an introductory hand; Mrs. James turns, 
no 



and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with sus- 
picion.) 

laura. William, is that you? 

William. Yes, my dear; it's me. 

laura. Can't you be more distinct than that? 

William. Why do you want me? 

laura. Have you forgotten I'm your wife? 

William. I thought you were my widow, my dear. 

laura. William, don't prevaricate. I am your 
wife, and you know it. 

william. Does a wife wear widow's weeds? A 
widow is such a distant relation: no wonder I look 
indistinct. 

laura. How did I know whether I was going to 
find you here? 

william. Where else? But you look very nice 
as you are, my dear. Black suits you. 

(But Mrs. James is not to be turned off by 
compliments.) 

laura. William, who are you living with? 

william. With myself, my dear. 

in 



laura. Anyone else? 

william. Off and on I have friends staying. 

laura. Are you living with Isabel? 

william. She comes in occasionally to see how I'm 
getting on. 

laura. And how are you ' getting on ' — without 
me? 

william. Oh, I manage — somehow. 

laura. Are you living a proper life, William? 

william. Well, I'm here, my dear; what more do 
you want to know? 

laura. There's a great deal I want to know. But 
I wish you'd come in and shut the door, instead of 
standing out there in the passage. 

julia. The door is shut, Laura. 

laura. Then I don't call it a door. 

william (trying to make things pleasant.) When 
is a door not a door? When it's a parent. 

laura. William, I want to talk seriously. Do you 
know that when you died you left a lot of debts I 
didn't know about? 
112 



William. I didn't know about them either, my 
dear. But if you had, it wouldn't have made any 
difference. 

laura. Yes, it would ! I gave you a very expensive 
funeral. 

william. That was to please yourself, my dear; 
it didn't concern me. 

laura. Have you no self-respect? I've been at 
my own funeral to-day, let me tell you! 

william. Have you, my dear? Rather trying, 
wasn't that? 

laura. Yes, it was. They've gone and put me 
beside you; and now I begin to wish they hadn't! 

william. Go and haunt them, for it! 

(At this Julia deigns a slight chuckle.) 

laura (abruptly getting back to her own). I had 
to go into a smaller house, William. And people knew 
it was because you'd left me badly off. 

william. That reflected on me, my dear, not on 
you. 

laura. It reflected on me for ever having married 
you. 

"3 



william. I've often heard you blame yourself. 
Well, now you're free. 

laura. I'm not free. 

william.. You can be if you like. Hadn't you 
better? 

laura {sentimentally). Don't you see I'm still in 
mourning for you, William? 

william. I appreciate the compliment, my dear. 
Don't spoil it. 

laura. Don't be heartless! 

william. I'm not: far from it. {He looks at his 
watch.) I'm afraid I must go now. 

laura. Why must you go? 

william. They are expecting me — to dinner. 

laura. Who's ' they '? 

william. The children and their mother. They've 
invited me to stay the night. 

{Mrs. James does her best to conceal the 
shock this gives her. She delivers her 
ultimatum with judicial firmness.) 

laura. William, I wish you to come and live here 
with me. 
114 



(William vanishes. Mrs. James in a fervour 
of virtuous indignation hastens to the 
door, opens it, and calls " William! " but 
there is no answer.) 

{Julia, meanwhile, has rung the bell. Mrs. 
James still stands glowering in the door- 
way when she hears footsteps, and moves 
majestically aside for the returned peni- 
tent to enter; but alas! it is only Han- 
nah, obedient to the summons of the 
bell. Mrs. James faces round and fires 
a shot at her.) 

laura. Hannah, you are an ugly woman. 

julia (faint with horror). Laura! 

hannah (imp erturb ably) . Well, Ma'am, I'm as 
God made me. 

julia. Yes, please, take the tea-things. (Sotto 
voce, as Hannah approaches.) I'm sorry, Hannah! 

hannah. It doesn't matter, Ma'am. (She picks up 
the tray expeditiously and carries it off.) 

(Mrs. James eyes the departing tray, and is 

again reminded of something.) 

laura. Julia, where is the silver tea-pot? 

julia. Which, Laura? 

"5 



laura. Why, that beautiful one of our Mother's. 

julia. When we shared our dear Mother's things 
between us, didn't Martha have it? 

laura. Yes, she did. But she tells me she doesn't 
know what's become of it. When I say, What did she 
do with it in the first place? she loses her temper. 
But once she told me she left it here with you. 

(The fierce eye and the accusing tone make 
no impression on that cushioned fortress 
of gentility. With suave dignity Miss 
Robinson makes chaste denial.) 

julia. No. 

laura (insistent). Yes; in a box. 

julia. In a box? Oh, she may have left any- 
thing in a box. 

laura. It was that box she always travelled about 
with and never opened. Well, I looked in it once 
(never mind how), and the tea-pot wasn't there. 

julia (gently, making allowance). Well, I didn't 
look in it, Laura. 

(Like a water-lily folding its petals she ad- 
justs a small shawl about her shoulders 
and sinks composedly into her chair.) 
116 



laura. The more fool you! . . . But all the other 
things she had of our Mother's were there: a perfect 
magpie's nest! And she, living in her boxes, and 
never settling anywhere. What did she want with 
them? 

julia. I can't say, Laura. 

laura. No — no more can I, no more can anyone! 
Martha has got the miser spirit. She's as grasping 
as a caterpillar. / ought to have had that tea-pot. 

julia. Why? 

laura. Because I had a house of my own, and 
people coming to tea. Martha never had anyone to 
tea with her in her life — except in lodgings. 

julia. We all like to live in our own way. 
Martha liked going about. 

laura. Yes. She promised me, after William — I 
suppose I had better say " evaporated " as you won't 
let me say " died " — she promised always to stay with 
me for three months in the year. She never did. 
Two, and some little bits, were the most. And I want 
to know where was that tea-pot all the time? 

julia (a little jocosely). Not in the box, appar- 
ently. 

laura (returning to her accusation). I thought you 
had it. 

117 



julia. You were mistaken. Had I had it here, 
you would have found it. 

laura. Did Martha never tell you what she did 
with it? 

julia. I never asked, Laura. 

laura. Julia, if you say that again, I shall scream. 

julia. Won't you take your things off? 

laura. Presently. When I feel more at home. 
{Returning to the charge.) But most of our Mother's 
things are here. 

julia. Your share and mine. 

laura. How did you get mine here? 

julia. You brought them. At least, they came, 
a little before you did. Then I knew you were on 
your way. 

laura (impressed). Lor'! So that's how things 
happen? 

(She goes and begins to take a look round, 
and Julia takes up her crochet again. 
As she does so her eye is arrested by a 
little old-fashioned hour-glass standing 
upon the table from which the tea-tray 
has been taken, the sands of which are 
still running.) 
118 



julia (softly, almost to herself). Oh, but how 
strange! That was Martha's. Is Martha coming too? 
(She picks up the glass, looks at it, and sets it down 
again.) 

laura (who is examining the china on a side-table). 
Why, I declare, Julia! Here is your Dresden that 
was broken — without a crack in it! 

julia. No, Laura, it was yours that was broken. 

laura. It was not mine; it was yours. . . . Don't 
you remember / broke it? 

julia. When you broke it you said it was mine. 
Until you broke it, you said it was yours. 

laura. Very well, then: as you wish. It isn't 
broken now, and it's mine. 

julia. That's satisfactory. I get my own back 
again. It's the better one. 

(Enter Hannah with a telegram on a salver.) 
hannah (in a low voice of mystery). A telegram, 
Ma'am. 

(Mia opens it. The contents evidently 
startle her, but she retains her presence 
of mind.) 

julia. No answer. 

(Exit Hannah.) 

119 



junA. Laura, Martha is coming! 

laura. Here? Well, I wonder how she has man- 
aged that! 

(Her sister hands her the telegram, which 
she reads.) 

" Accident. Quite safe. Arriving by the 6.30." 
Why, it's after that now! 

julia (sentimentally). Oh, Laura, only think! 
So now we shall be all together again. 

laura. Yes, I suppose we shall. 

julia. It will be quite like old days. 

laura (warningly, as she sits down again and pre- 
pares for narrative). Not quite, Julia. (She leans 
forward, and speaks with measured emphasis.) Mar- 
tha's temper's got very queer! She never had a very 
good temper, as you know: and it's grown on her. 

(A pause. Julia remains silent.) 

I could tell you some things; but (Seeing her- 
self unenc our aged.) Oh, you'll find out soon enough! 
(Then, to stand right with herself.) Julia, am I diffi- 
cult to get on with? 

julia. Oh, well; we all have our little ways, Laura. 
120 



laura. But Martha, she's so rude! I can't intro- 
duce her to people! If anyone comes, she just runs 
away. 

julia (changing the subject). D'you remember, 
Laura, that charming young girl we met at Mrs. Somer- 
vale's, the summer Uncle Fletcher stayed with us? 

laura. I can't say I do. 

julia. I met her the other day: married, and with 
three children — and just as pretty and young-looking 
as ever. 

(All this is said with the most ravishing air; 
but Laura is not to be diverted.) 

laura. Ah! I daresay. When Martha behaves 
like that, I hold my tongue and say nothing. But 
what people must think, I don't know. Julia, when 
you first came here, did you find old friends and 
acquaintances? Did anybody recognise you? 

julia. A few called on me: nobody I didn't wish 
to see. 

laura. Is that odious man who used to be our 
next-door neighbour — the one who played on the 'cello 
— here still? 

julia. Mr. Harper? I see him occasionally. I 
don't find him odious. 

121 



laura. Don't you? 

julia. It was his wife who was the She isn't 

here: and I don't think he wants her. 

laura. Where is she? 

julia. I didn't ask, Laura. 

{Mrs. James gives a jerk of exasperation, but 
at that moment the bell rings and a low 
knock is heard.) 

julia (ecstatically). Here she is! 

laura. Julia, I wonder how it is Martha survived 
us. She's much the oldest. 

julia (pleasantly palpitating). Does it matter? 
Does it matter? 

(The door opens and in comes Martha. She 
has neither the distinction of look nor 
the force of character which belongs to 
her two sisters. Age has given a de- 
pression to the plain kindliness of her 
face, and there is a harassed look about 
her eyes. She peeps into the room a 
little anxiously, then enters, carrying a 
large fiat box covered in purple paper 
which, in her further progress across the 
room she lays upon the table. She talks 
122 



in short jerks and has a quick, hurried 
way of doing things, as if she liked to 
get through and have done with them. 
It is the same when she submits herself 
to the embrace of her relations.) 

laura. Oh, so you've come at last. Quite time, too ! 

martha. Yes, here I am. 

julia. My dear Martha, welcome to your old 
home! {Embracing her.) How are you? 

martha. I'm cold. Well, Laura. 

{Between these two the embrace is less cor- 
dial, but it takes place.) 

laura. How did you come? 

martha. I don't know. 

julia {seeing harassment in her sister's eye). Ar- 
rived safely, at any rate. 

martha. I think I was in a railway accident, but 
I can't be sure. I only heard the crash and people 
shouting. I didn't wait to see. I just put my fingers 
in my ears, and ran away. 

laura. Why do you think it was a railway acci- 
dent? 

martha. Because I was in a railway carriage. I 

123 



was coming to your funeral. If you'd told me you 
were ill, I'd have come before. I was bringing you a 
wreath. And then, as I tell you, there was a crash and 
a shout; and that's all I know about it. 

laura. Lor', Martha! I suppose they'll have an 
inquest on you. 

martha {stung). I think they'd better mind their 
own business, and you mind yours! 

julia. Laura! Here we don't talk about such 
things. They don't concern us. Would you like tea, 
Martha, or will you wait for supper? 

martha {who has shaken her head at the offer of 
tea, and nodded a preference for supper.) You know 
how I've always dreaded death. 

julia. Oh, don't, my dear Martha! It's past. 

martha. Yes ; but it's upset me. The relief, that's 
what I can't get over: the relief! 

julia. Presently you will be more used to it. 

{She helps her off with her cloak.) 

martha. There were people sitting to right and to 
left of me and opposite; and suddenly a sort of crash 
of darkness seemed to come all over me, and I saw 
nothing more. I didn't feel anything: only a sort of 
a jar here. 
124 



{She indicates the back of her neck. Julia 
finds these anatomical details painful, 
and holds her hands deprecatingly ; but 
Laura has no such qualms. She is now 
undoing the parcel which, she considers, 
is hers.) 

laura. I daresay it was only somebody's box from 
the luggage-rack. I've known that happen. I don't 
suppose for a minute that it was a railway accident. 

{She unfurls the tissue paper of the box and 
takes out the wreath.) 

julia. Why talk about it? 

laura. Anyway, nothing has happened to these. 
"With fondest love from Martha." H'm. Pretty! 

julia. Martha, would you like to go upstairs with 
your things? And you, Laura? 

martha. I will presently, when I've got warm. 

laura. Not yet. Martha, why was I put into that 
odious shaped coffin? More like a canoe than any- 
thing. I said it was to be straight. 

martha. I'd nothing to do with it, Laura. I 
wasn't there. You know I wasn't. 

laura. If you'd come when I asked you, you could 
have seen to it. 

125 



martha. You didn't tell me you were dying. 

laura. Do people tell each other when they are 
dying? They don't know. I told you I wasn't well. 

martha. You always told me that, just when I'd 
settled down somewhere else. ... Of course I'd have 
come if I'd known! (testily). 

julia. Oh, surely we needn't go into these matters 
now! Isn't it better to accept things? 

laura. I like to have my wishes attended to. 
What was going to be done about the furniture? 
(This to Martha.) You know, I suppose, that I left 
it to the two of you — you and Edwin? 

martha. We were going to give it to Bella, to set 
up house with. 

laura. That's not what I intended. I meant you 
to keep on the house and live there. Why couldn't 
you? 

martha (with growing annoyance). Well, that's 
settled now! 

laura. It wasn't for Arabella. Arabella was never 
a favourite of mine. Why should Arabella have my 
furniture? 

martha. Well, you'd better send word, and have 
126 



it stored up for you till doomsday! Edwin doesn't 
want it; he's got enough of his own. 

laura (in a sleek, injured voice). Julia, I'm going 
upstairs to take my things off. 

julia. Very well, Laura. 

(Laura goes with a hurt air.) 

So you've been with Edwin, and his family? 

martha. Yes. I'm never well there; but I wanted 
the change. 

julia. You mean, you had been staying with 
Laura? 

martha. I always go and stay with her, as long as 
I can — three months, I'm supposed to. But this year 
— well, I couldn't manage with it. 

julia. Is she so much more difficult than she used 
to be? 

martha. Of course, I don't know what she's like 
here. 

julia. Oh, she has been very much herself — poor 
Laura! 

martha. I know! Julia, I know! And I try 
to make allowances. All her life she's had her own 

127 



way with somebody. Poor William! Of course I 
know he had his faults. But he used to come and 
say to me: " Martha, I can't please her." Well, poor 
man, let's hope he's at peace now! Oh, Julia! I've 
just thought: whatever will poor William do? He's 
here, I suppose, somewhere? 

julia. Oh yes. He's here, Martha. 

martha. She'll rout him out, depend on it. 

julia. She has routed him out. 

martha. Has she? 

julia (shakes her head). William won't live with 
her; he knows better. 

martha. Who will live with her, then? She's 
bound to get hold of somebody. 

julia. Apparently she means to live here. 

martha. Then it's going to be me. I know it's 
going to be me. When we lived here before, it used 
to be poor Mamma. 

julia. The dear Mother is quite capable of look- 
ing after herself, you'll find. You needn't belong to 
Laura if you don't like, Martha. I never let her take 
possession of me. 

martha. She never seemed to want to. I don't 
know how you manage it. 
128 



julia. Oh, we've had our little tussles. But here 
you will find it much easier. You can vanish. 

martha. What do you mean? 

julia. I mean — vanish. It takes the place of 
wings. One can do it almost without knowing. 

martha. How do you do it? 

julia. You just wish yourself elsewhere; and you 
come back when you like. 

martha. Have you ever done it? 

julia {with a world of meaning). Not yet. 

martha. She won't like it. One doesn't belong 
to one's self, when she's about — nor does anything. 
I've had to hide my own things from her sometimes. 

julia. I shouldn't wonder. 

martha. Do you remember the silver tea-pot? 

julia. I've been reminded of it. 

martha. It was mine, wasn't it? 

julia. Oh, of course. 

martha. Laura never would admit it was mine. 
She wanted it; so I'd no right to it. 

julia. I had a little idea that was it. 

129 



martha. For years she was determined to have it: 
and I was determined she shouldn't have it. And she 
didn't have it. 

julia. Who did have it? 

martha. Henrietta was to. I sent it her as a 
wedding-present, and told her Laura was not to know. 
And, as she was in Australia, that seemed safe. Well, 
the ship it went out in was wrecked — all because of 
that tea-pot, I believe — so now it's at the bottom 
of the sea! 

julia. Destiny! 

martha. She searched my boxes to try and find it: 
stole my keys! I missed them, but I didn't dare say 
anything. I used to wrap it in my night-gown and 
hide it in the bed during the day, and sleep with it 
under my pillow at night. And I was so thankful 
when Henrietta got married; so as to be rid of it! 

julia. Hush! 

(Re-enter Mrs. James, her bonnet still on, 
with the strings dangling, and her cloak 
on her arm.) 

laura. Julia I've been looking at your room in 
there. 

julia {coldly). Have you, Laura? 
130 



laura. It used to be our Mother's room. 

julia. I don't need to be reminded of that: it is 
why I chose it. {Rising gracefully from her chair, she 
goes to attend to the fire.) 

laura. Don't you think it would be much better 
for you to give it up, and let our Mother come back 
and live with us? 

julia. She has never expressed the wish. 

laura. Of course not, with you there. 

julia. She was not there when I came. 

laura. How could you expect it, in a house all 
by herself? 

julia. I gave her the chance: I began by occupy- 
ing my own room. 

laura (self-caressingly) . I wasn't here then. That 
didn't occur to you, I suppose? You seem to forget 
you weren't the only one. 

julia. Kind of you to remind me. 

laura. Saucy. 

julia. Martha, will you excuse me a moment? 

{Polite to the last, she vanishes gracefully 
away from the vicinity of the coal-box. 

131 



The place where she has been stooping 
knows her no more.) 

laura {rushing round the intervening table to in- 
vestigate). Julia! 

(Martha, who is quite as much surprised as 
Mrs. James, but less indignant.) 

martha. Well! Did you ever? 

laura (facing about after vain search). Does she 
think that is the proper way to behave to me? Julia! 

martha. It's no good, Laura. You know Julia as 
well as I do. If she makes up her mind to a thing 

laura. Yes. She's been waiting here to exercise 
her patience on me, and now she's happy! Well, 
she'll have to learn that this house doesn't belong to 
her any longer. She has got to accommodate herself 
to living with others. ... I wonder how she'd like 
me to go and sit in that pet chair of hers? 

julia (softly reappearing in the chair which the 
"dear Mother" usually occupies). You can go and 
sit in it if you wish, Laura. 

laura (ignoring her return). Martha, do you re- 
member that odious man who used to live next door, 
who played the 'cello on Sundays? 
132 



martha. Oh yes, I remember. They used to hang 
out washing in the garden, didn't they? 

laura (very scandalously) . Julia is friends with 
him! They call on each other. His wife doesn't live 
with him any longer. 

(Julia rises and goes slowly and majestically 
out of the room.) 

laura (after relishing what she conceives to be her 
rout of the enemy). .Martha, what do you think of 
Julia? 

martha. Oh, she's What do you want me 

to think of her? 

laura. High and mighty as ever, isn't she? She's 
been here by herself so long she thinks the whole place 
is hers. 

martha. I daresay we shall settle down well enough 
presently. Which room are you sleeping in? 

laura. Of course, I have my old one. Where do 
you want to go? 

martha. The green room will suit me. 

laura. And Julia means to keep our Mother's 
room: I can see that. No wonder she won't come and 
stay. 

133 



martha. Have you seen her? 

laura. She just " looked in," as Julia calls it. I 
could see she'd hoped to find me alone. Julia always 
thought she was the favourite. I knew better. 

martha. How was she? 

laura. Just her old self; but as if she missed some- 
thing. It wasn't a happy face, until I spoke to her: 
then it all brightened up. . . . Oh, thank you for the 
wreath, Martha. Where did you get it? 

martha. Emily made it. 

laura. That fool! Then she made her own too, 
I suppose? 

martha. Yes. That went the day before, so you 



laura. I thought it didn't look up to much. {She 
is now contemplating Emily's second effort with a 
critical eye.) Now a little maiden-hair fern would 
have made a WGrld of difference. 

martha. I don't hold with flowers myself. I think 
it's wasteful. But, of course, one has to do it. 

laura (with pained regret). I'm sorry, Martha; I 
return it — with many thanks. 

martha. What's the good of that? I can't give 
it back to Emily, now! 
134 



laura {with quiet grief). I don't wish to be a cause 
of waste. 

martha. Well, take it to pieces, then, and put it in 
water — or wear it round your head! 

laura. Ten beautiful wreaths my friends sent me. 
They are all lying on my grave now! A pity that 
love is so wasteful! Well, I suppose I must go now 
and change into my cap. (Goes to the door, where 
she encounters Julia.) Why, Julia, you nearly 
knocked me down! 

julia (ironically). I beg your pardon, Laura; it 
comes of using the same door. Hannah has lighted a 
fire in your room. 

laura. That's sensible at any rate. 

(Exit Mrs. James.) 

julia. Well? And how do you find Laura? 

martha. Julia, I don't know whether I can stand 
her. 

julia. She hasn't got quite— used to herself yet. 

martha (explosively) . Put that aw&y somewhere! 

(She gives an angry shove to the wreath.) 

julia. Put it away! Why? 

i3S 



martha (furious). Emily made it: and it didn't 
cost anything; and it hasn't got any maiden-hair 
fern in it; and it's too big to wear with her cap. So 
it's good for nothing! Put it on the.nre! She doesn't 
want to see it again. 

julia (comprehending the situation, restores the 
wreath to its box). Why did you bring it here, Martha? 

martha (miserably). I don't know. I just clung 
on to it. I suppose it was on my mind to look after 
it, and see it wasn't damaged. So I found I'd brought 
it with me. ... I believe, now I think of it, I've 
brought some sandwiches, too. (She routs in a small 
hand-bag.) Yes, I have. Well, I can have them for 
supper. . . . Emily made those too. 

julia. Then I think you'd better let Hannah have 
them — for the sake of peace. 

martha (woefully). I thought I was going to have 
peace here. 

julia. It will be all right, Martha — presently. 



martha. Well, I don't want to be uncharitable; 
but I do wish — I must say it — I do wish Laura had 
been cremated. 

(This is the nearest she can do for wishing 
her sister in the place to which she 
136 



thinks she belongs. But the uncremated 
Mrs. James now re-enters in widow's 
cap.) 

laura. Julia, have you ever seen Papa, since you 
came here? 

Julia {frigidly). No, I have not. 

laura. Has our Mother seen him? 

julia. I haven't (About to say the offending 

word, she checks herself.) Mamma has not seen him: 
nor does she know his whereabouts. 

laura. Does nobody know? 

julia. Nobody that I know of. 

laura. Well, but he must be somewhere. Is there 
no way of finding him? 

julia. Perhaps you can devise one. I suppose, 
if we chose, we could go to him; but I'm not sure — 
as he doesn't come to us. 

laura. Lor', Julia! Suppose he should be 

julia (deprecatingly) . Oh, Laura! 

laura. But, Julia, it's very awkward, not to know 
where one's own father is. Don't people ever ask? 

julia. Never, I'm thankful to say. 

137 



laura. Why not? 

julia. Perhaps they know better. 

laura (after a pause). I'm afraid he didn't lead 
a good life. 

martha. Oh, why can't you let the thing be? 
If you don't remember him, I do. I was fond of him. 
He was always very kind to us as children; and if he 
did run away with the governess it was a good rid- 
dance — so far as she was concerned. We hated her. 

laura. I wonder whether they are together still. 
You haven't inquired after her, I suppose? 

julia (luxuriating in her weariness). I — have — 
not, Laura! 

laura. Don't you think it's our solemn duty to 
inquire? I shall ask our Mother. 

julia. I hope you will do nothing of the sort. 

laura. But we ought to know: otherwise we don't 
know how to think of him, whether with mercy and 
pardon for his sins, or with reprobation. 

martha. Why need you think? Why can't you 
leave him alone? 

laura. An immortal soul, Martha. It's no good 
leaving him alone: that won't alter facts. 

138 



julia. I don't think this is quite a nice subject for 
discussion. 

laura. Nice? Was it ever intended to be nice? 
Eternal punishment wasn't provided as a consolation 
prize for anybody, so far as I know. 

martha. I think it's very horrible — for us to be 
sitting here — by the fire; and why can't you leave it? 

(But theology is not Martha's strong point: 
so she breaks off, exclaiming) 
Oh! 

laura. Because it's got to be faced; and I mean 
to face it. Now, Martha, don't try to get out of it. 
We have got to find our Father. 

julia. I think, before doing anything, we ought 
to consult Mamma. 

laura. Very well, call her and consult her! You 
were against it just now. 

julia. I am against it still. It's all so unnecessary. 
martha. Lor,' there is Mamma! 

(Old Mrs. Robinson is once more in her 
place. Martha makes a move toward 
her.) 

julia. Don't, Martha. She doesn't like to be 

139 



mrs. r. I've heard what you've been talking about. 
No, I haven't seen him. I've tried to get him to 
come to me, but he didn't seem to want. Martha, 
my dear, how are you? 

martha. Oh, I'm — much as usual. And you, 
Mother? 

mrs. r. Well, what about your Father? Who 
wants him? 

laura. I want him. 

mrs. r. What for? 

laura. First we want to know what sort of a life 
he is leading. Then we want to ask him about his will. 

julia. Oh, Laura! 

martha. / don't. I don't care if he made a dozen. 

laura. So I thought if we all called him. You 
heard when I called, didn't you? Oh, no, that was 
William. 

mrs. r. Who's William? 

laura. Didn't you know I was married? 

mrs. r. No. Did he die? 

laura. Well, now, couldn't we call him? 
140 



mrs. r. I daresay. He won't like it. 

laura. He must. He belongs to us. 

mrs. r. Yes, I suppose — as I wouldn't divorce him, 
though he wanted me to. I said marriages were made 
in Heaven. 

a voice. Luckily, they don't last there. 

{Greatly startled, they look around, and per- 
ceive presently in the mirror over the 
mantel-piece the apparition of a figure 
which they seem dimly to recognise. A 
tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary 
type, with long side-whiskers, and 
dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, 
has taken up his position to one side 
of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass 
in eye, with folded arms resting on the 
mantel-slab , and a stylish hat in one 
hand, he gazes upon the assembled fam- 
ily with quizzical benevolence.) 

mrs. r. (placidly). What, is that you, Thomas? 

thomas {speaking with the fashionable lisp of the 
fifties which finds ' s' an impediment ) . How do you 
do, Susan? 

(There follows a pause, broken courageously 
by Mrs. James.) 

141 



laura. Are you my Father? 

thomas. I don't know. Who are you? Who are 
all of you? 

laura. I had better explain. This is our dear 
Mother: her you recognise. You are her husband, 
and we are your daughters. This is Martha, this is 
Julia, and I'm Laura. 

thomas. Is this true, Susan? Are these our 
progeny? 

mrs. r. Yes — that is — yes, Thomas. 

thomas. I should not have known it. They all 
look so much older. 

laura. Then when you left us? Naturally! 

thomas. Then me, I meant. 

laura. Because we have lived longer. Papa, when 
did you die? 

julia. Oh! Laura! 

thomas. I don't know, child. 

laura. Don't know? How don't you know? 

thomas. Because in prisons, and other lunatic 
asylums, one isn't allowed to know anything. 
142 



mrs. r. A lunatic asylum! Oh, Thomas, what 
brought you there? 

thomas. A damned life, Susan — with you, and 
others. 

julia. Oh, Laura, why did you do this? 

martha. If this goes on, I shall leave the room. 

laura. Where are those " others " now? 

thomas. Three of them I see before me. You, 
Laura, used to scream horribly. When you were teeth- 
ing I was sleepless. Your Mother insisted on having 
you in the^room with us. No wonder I went elsewhere. 

martha. I'm going. 

thomas. Don't, Martha. You were the quietest 
of the lot. When you were two years old I even began 
to like you. You were the exception. 

laura. Haven't you any affection for your old 

home? 

thomas. None. It was a prison. You were the 
gaolers and the turnkeys. To keep my feet in the 
domestic way you made me wool-work slippers, and 
I had to wear them. You gave me neckties, which 
I wouldn't wear. You gave me affection of a de- 
manding kind, which I didn't want. You gave me a 

143 



moral atmosphere which I detested. And at last I 
could bear it no more, and I escaped. 

laura (deaf to instruction). Papa, we wish you 
and our dear Mother to come back and live with us. 

thomas. Live with my grandmother! How could 
I live with any of you? 

laura. Where are you living? 

thomas. Ask no questions, and you will be told 
no lies. 

laura. Where is she? 

thomas. Which she? 

laura. The governess. 

thomas. Which governess? 

laura. The one you went away with. 

thomas. D'you want her back again? You can 
have her. She'll teach you a thing or two. She did me. 

laura. Then you have repented, Papa? 

thomas. God! why did I come here? 

mrs. r. Yes; why did you come? It was weak 
of you. 
144 



thomas. Because I never could resist women. 

laura. Were you really mad when you died, Papa? 

thomas. Yes, and am still: stark, staring, raving, 
mad, like all the rest of you. 

laura. I am not aware that / am mad. 

thomas. Then you are a bad case. Not to know 
it, is the worst sign of all. It's in the family: you 
can't help being. Everything you say and do, proves 
it. . . . You were mad to come here. You are mad 
to remain here. You were mad to want to see me. 
I was mad to let you see me. I was mad at the mere 
sight of you; and I'm mad to be off again! Good- 
bye, Susan. If you send for me again, I shan't come! 

(He puts on his hat with a flourish.) 

laura. Where are you going, Father? 

thomas. To Hell, child! Your Hell, my Heaven! 

(He spreads his arms and rises up through 
the looking-glass ; you see his violet 
frock-coat, his check trousers, his white 
spats, and patent-leather boots ascend- 
ing into and passing from view. He 
twiddles his feet at them and vanishes.) 

julia. And now I hope you are satisfied, Laura? 

145 



Martha. Where's Mamma gone? 

julia. So you've driven her away, too. Well, that 
finishes it. 

(Apparently it does. Robbed of her paren- 
tal prey, Mrs. James reverts to the 
next dearest possession she is concerned 
about.) 

laura. Martha, where is the silver tea-pot? 

martha. I don't know, Laura. 

laura. You said Julia had it. 

martha. I didn't say anything of the sort! You 
said — you supposed Julia had it; and I said — suppose 
she had! And I left it at that. 

laura. Julia says she hasn't got it, so you must 
have it. 

martha. I haven't! 

laura. Then where is it? 

martha. I don't know any more than Julia knows. 

laura. Then one of you is not telling the truth. 
. . . (Very judicially she begins to examine the two 
culprits.) Julia, when did you last see it? 

julia. On the day, Laura, when we shared things 
146 



between us. It became Martha's: and I never saw 
it again. 

laura. Martha, when did you last see it? 

martha. I have not seen it — for I don't know how 
long. 

laura. That is no answer to my question. 

martha (vindictively). Well, if you want to know, 
it's at the bottom of the sea. 

laura (deliberately). Don't — talk — nonsense. 

martha. Unless a shark has eaten it. 

laura. When I ask a reasonable question, Martha, 
I expect a reasonable answer. 

martha. I've given you a reasonable answer! 
And I wish the Judgment Day would come, and the 

sea give up its dead, and then (At the end of her 

resources, the poor lady begins to gather herself up so 
as once for all to have done with it.) Now, I am going 
downstairs to talk to Hannah. 

laura. You will do nothing of the kind, Martha. 

martha. I'm not going to be bullied— not by you 
or anyone. 

Laura. I must request you to wait and hear what 
IVe got to say. 

147 



martha. I don't want to hear it. 

laura. Julia, are we not to discuss this matter, 
pray? 

{Julia, who has her eye on Martha, and is 
quite enjoying this tussle of the two, 
says nothing.) 

martha. You and Julia can discuss it. I am going 
downstairs. 

(Mrs. James crosses the room, locks the door, 
and, standing mistress of all she surveys, 
inquires with grim humour) 

laura. And where are you going to be, Julia? 

julia. I am where I am, Laura. I'm not going 
out of the window, or up the chimney, if that's what 
you mean. 

(She continues gracefully to do her crochet.) 

laura. Now, Martha, if you please. 

martha (goaded into victory). I'm sorry, Julia. 
Perhaps you'll explain. I'm going downstairs. 

(Suiting the action to the word, she com- 
mits herself doggedly to the experiment, 
descending bluntly and without grace 
148 



through the carpet into the room below. 
Mrs. James stands stupent.) 

laura. Martha! ... Am I to be defied in this 
way? 

julia. You brought it on yourself, Laura. 

laura. You told her to do it! 

julia. She would have soon found out for herself. 
{Collectedly, she folds up her work, and rises.) And 
now, I think, I will go to my room and wash my hands 
for supper. 

(As she makes her stately move, her ear is 
attracted by a curious metallic sound 
repeated at intervals. Turning about, 
she perceives, indeed they both perceive, 
in the centre of the small table, a hand- 
some silver tea-pot which opens and 
shuts its lid at them, as if trying to 



julia. Oh, look, Laura! Martha's tea-pot has 
arrived. 

laura. She told a lie, then. 

julia. No, it was the truth. She wished for it. 
The sea has given up its dead. 

laura. Then I have got it at last! 

149 



{But, as she goes to seize the disputed pos- 
session it snaps its lid at her, and emits 
a sharp hiss of steam. Laura starts 
back. Martha rises through the floor, 
grabs the tea-pot, and descends to the 
nether regions once more.) 

laura (glaring at her sister with haggard eye). 
Julia, where are we? 

julia. I don't know what you mean, Laura. (She 
reaches out a polite hand.) The key. 

(Mrs. James delivers up the key as though 
glad to be rid of it.) 

laura. What is this place we've come to? 
julia (persuasively) . Our home. 

laura. I think we are in Hell ! 

julia (going to the door, which she unlocks with 
soft triumph). We are all where we wish to be, 
Laura. (A gong sounds .) That's supper. (The gong 
continues its metallic bumblings.) 

(Julia departs, leaving Mrs. James in undis- 
puted possession of the situation she has 
made for herself.) 



Curtain 



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* « • o* Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

* jA^^/k' Treatment Date: April 2009 

) PreservationTechnologie: 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATIC 

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